


The Scarlet Sword

by LightningEyed



Category: Pathfinder (Roleplaying Game), Starfinder
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2019-07-23 16:26:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 51
Words: 76,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16162583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LightningEyed/pseuds/LightningEyed
Summary: Scarlett Duma, a native of Absalom Station, has dreamed of being a Steward for as long as she can remember. When the Pact Worlds' peacekeeping force rejects her because of her brother's criminal record, she must find another path. The one she chooses leads her, along with a group of other unlikely heroes, on a mission to unearth the cause of Golarion's disappearance and redeem a man whose upbringing taught him nothing of love.A spinoff of the Starfinder campaign I run. Populated by mostly OCs, though where applicable, canon personnel may be utilized. Tags and warnings are subject to change as the story develops. Also tagged in Pathfinder as knowing the setting/lore may be helpful.





	1. Rejection from Bastion

**Author's Note:**

> This story is dedicated to my players, Alex (Senya), Rebecca (Luck), Justin (Sparky), and Nate (Rhot), for Shipping the Ship™ that inspired Lett and Kaston's ridiculous backstory. They were supposed to be throwaway NPCs, you know.  
> And to Ryan (Red). We kind of threw you onto the Shipping Ship. You've been great.

The data pad on her wrist blinked, as did those worn by several of the other students seated around Absalom University’s student union.

_ The results of your LAT are now available. Please report to your advisor when convenient to receive them. _

Scarlett Duma shifted to her feet. Dr. Narl’s office hours closed in forty minutes, but she could easily make it across campus in time. She boarded the magtrain that connected the student union to the admin building, where all the professors’ offices were located. A handful of other students, apparently crossing campus for the same purpose, avoided her gaze as she avoided theirs, all the way to the admin building. The train routed through a series of green quads, covered in plants grown under the artificial lights of Level 2. The University was important, but it was by no means as important or prestigious an institution as the Starfinder Society, or the Stewards, or any of the churches that based themselves out of the Station.

Scarlett stepped off the train at the brightly illuminated platform and immediately headed for the bank of elevators that would lead her up into the administration building. She pressed the button for Dr. Narl’s floor and navigated almost mindlessly to his office.

The old dwarf was arranging his bookshelves when she arrived. It was odd, anymore, to have paper codices lining your shelves, but Dr. Narl’s collection lined every wall of his office. He was a history professor, an often-discredited occupation after the Gap, although he had managed to pull through alright.

“Good evening, Ms. Duma,” he greeted her as she stuck her head in his open door. “Here about your test, I’d bet.”

Scarlett nodded. “You know me. I wouldn’t get a wink of sleep tonight if I didn’t check my results first thing.”

Dr. Narl passed her a chip, which she plugged into her data pad. The results of the LAT, or Lorespire Aptitude Test, were given out in person to ensure security. The test had been developed by the Starfinder Society, each section standardized for one of the subjects the students had taken over their four years at the University.

The chip quickly opened the appropriate program, leaving her staring at her scores. Twenty out of twenty in Pact Law and Station History… She scowled at the eighteen in Organic Alchemy, remembering the rightfully ill-reputed class. Seventeen in Azlanti Language and Culture and Extraplanar Mathematics. A collection of fifteens, fairly average scores, in most subjects. Her lowest score was a fourteen, in Starstone Theology, a core class the University required.

She kept scrolling. The scores had also been distributed to several of Absalom Station’s major employers, who would potentially offer her a job based on them. That was the most important section. She scrolled through them; they were arranged alphabetically, beginning with an acceptance from AbadarCorp. There was one, though, that she was especially interested in. Nearly there, she scrolled past a surprising acceptance from the Starfinder Society itself…

Dr. Narl must have seen something in the look on her face, because he wondered, “What’s wrong, Scarlett?”

“Apparently the Stewards don’t want me.” She scrolled down further, wondering if there was an incomplete condition. The box beneath, though, simply read  _ Family Record. _ She tapped on it, wondering… “Of course. Of course it’s fucking Adran’s fault. The Stewards rejected  _ me _ because my older brother is a lawless asshole who spends more time cavorting with the gods-damned Augmented than he does with his own family.”

Dr. Narl offered a sympathetic smile. “Well, do you have a second choice? I don’t mean to pry, but I seemed to notice plenty of acceptances from other employers. Your high scores in Biomechanics and Organic Alchemy could get you into cybernetics school. Or maybe that’s not the best option, if you’re not a friend of the Augmented. There’s always AbadarCorp. I’m sure with those scores, you’d score more than just some petty internship. And did I notice the Starfinder Society accepted you?”

“With all due respect, Dr. Narl, the glamour of the Starfinder Society is not for me, and neither is the repetition of an office job. I have a plan B, yes.” She scrolled back up, perching over an employer whose status was conditional. “If the Stewards don’t want me, fine. The Hellknights will base their judgment on what  _ I’ve _ done, not what my brother has.”

Dr. Narl raised an eyebrow. “Hellknights? Scarlett, are you sure that is a good idea?”

“No. I can’t be sure of anything, as proven by this rejection status. But I have a twenty in Pact Law and Physical Fitness. I’ve already decided I want to work in law enforcement. The laws protect us, and I’ve seen what happens when they get broken.  The Hellknights protect us when the Stewards won’t, when they turn a blind eye.”

The dwarf sighed. “I can’t stop you, Scarlett, but I have my reasons to advise against this path.”

“If this is the same garbage about extremism my dad throws at me…”

“To be fair, the only surviving chronicle of the Hellknights from before the Gap freely admits that they regularly burned their country’s history books. But that’s not the reason in question. It’s that… well, they strip away your identity, your personality, for a long time, Ms. Duma, and by the time you get it back, you won’t recognize yourself.”

“Couldn’t the same be said of the Stewards?”

“I have coffee with Officer Kasra every day,” Mr. Narl said, referring to the head of the University’s campus security force, a kasatha and a Steward officer himself. “And, Kasra being Kasra, that often comes with a philosophy debate. He assures me that, no, Bastion basic and Armiger training are not the least bit similar. Steward officers who harass their subordinates are doing so to test their mettle, and the graduates of basic training are not subjected to it again. Hellknights who do the same are doing so as a fact of life, intending to stomp on you as long as they outrank you. Sometimes literally.”

“And how would Kasra know this? He’s no Hellknight.”

Dr. Narl stared sullenly at Scarlett. “No.  _ He’s  _ not.”

After a second, Scarlett’s eyes widened, realizing what Dr. Narl was insinuating. “You mean…  _ you’re _ a Hellknight?”

“I was, for decades.” He opened his desk drawer and drew out a box, of a size to hold a communicator badge or a piece of jewelry, and tipped back the lid to reveal a medallion. “I keep this to remind me why I retired and became a history professor: to preserve what I had previously destroyed. And to keep people who can’t handle the job from taking it.”

“With all due respect, Dr. Narl, I’m sure I can handle it.”

He set the medallion down in front of Scarlett. “Do you know what this mark means?”

She shook her head. “I haven’t really done much research on the orders themselves.”

“This is the Mark of the Unswerving granted by the Order of the Rack, a now defunct order, of which I was a paralictor. I burned books with that Order; I destroyed history. This mark is a reminder of that. It means that when I had to choose between my own father and the law, I chose the law. I regret that decision every day. Every hour. Every minute.” He clasped the box shut again. “I can’t stop you if your heart is set on it, of course. But if it is, please at least listen to an old dwarf’s advice.”

“Then advise,” Scarlett said, fixing hard green eyes on Mr. Narl.

“Never give up your heart or your mind,” the dwarf said bitterly. “It’s through those that they get to your soul.”

“My heart, mind, and soul are mine alone, and they’ll stay that way,” Scarlett said stubbornly.

“The Hellknights are rightly named,” Dr. Narl warned. “Return to me and tell me that your heart, mind, and soul still belong to you when you’ve passed through the flames with them and your life all intact, and I’ll believe you.”

“If there’s anything that can keep me pointed straight, it is a challenge.”

“Then consider that your challenge.”

Scarlett nodded briskly. “Thank you, Dr. Narl. I’ll try to come back and visit sometime.” She turned and stepped out the door, vanishing quickly down the long hallway.

“Torag, protect her,” Dr. Narl prayed under his breath. “She doesn’t know what she is in for.”


	2. The Slightest Clue

“LAT’s are out,” Cier Nehinit, better known to her friends as Clue, said, waving a datapad at Scarlett as she stepped back into their dorm room.

“I know,” Scarlett said, trying not to let her roommate see the disappointment on her face. Clue was too sharp for her today, though; the neatly-groomed snowy-furred ysoki frowned.

“You checked yours already, didn’t you? Scar, you have no patience, y’know?”

Scarlett sighed. “I couldn’t wait to get accepted into Bastion.”

“Lemme guess.” Clue dug in the refrigeration unit built under her bed for something. “You didn’t get in?”

“Nope. All because  _ somebody  _ has a criminal record.”

“Grosssss,” Clue empathized. “So what’re you gonna do instead? You talked about the Hellknights, but that wasn’t really your plan, right?”

Scarlett said nothing, and her roommate let the door of the refrigeration unit slam. “For actual? Scar, girl, you can’t be serious.” She held a bottle of balefire in one hand, which was  _ definitely _ against the University’s alcohol policy. Pushing herself up on her toes, she set it on her desk, then searched for a pair of dusty shot glasses, rinsing them out in the sink. “Need a drink to clear your head?”

“Doesn’t work that way. It’s literally biological fact.” Scarlett flopped onto her bed. “I have to pick an Order and put in my application, then start reading up on the material. And, of course, figure out what I’m going to say to my dad.”

Clue grimaced. “Yeah, I bet he won’t take that well.” She lifted the shot of balefire she’d poured, throwing her other paw into the air as if giving a dramatic monologue. “Cheers, Dad. I know you’re an Iomedaean priest and all, but I thought I’d let you know I’m running off with the Diabolist Freakshow Reborn! Mom wasn’t here to tell me no, because she left us to get killed in an Eoxian gladiatorial match!”

Scarlett arched a brow, giving a sideways smile. “That balefire is not treating you well.”

“I haven’t drank any yet.” Clue shrugged. “Everything that comes out of my mouth is just me. I poured a shot because I like the smell.”

“Like whiskey plus kerosene?” Scarlett pulled an elastic band out of her russet hair, shaking it out before climbing into her bed. “To each her own, I guess.”

Clue was silent for a little while, tinkering with a collection of scrap parts she’d collected from the engineering lab, but she spoke up again when Scarlett shifted in her bed, proving she was still awake.

“You don’t have to go join the Hellknights, you know. There are other options out there. You could be a mercenary. Or a Knight of Golarion. They enforce the laws, too, right?”

Scarlett snorted. “I wouldn’t give my dad the satisfaction of watching me become a Knight of Golarion. And mercenaries barely follow the letter of the law themselves.”

“Or you could join the Starfinder Society with me.”

“I’ve considered my options, Clue. Can I just get some sleep? Please?”

Clue sighed. “Just trying to look out for you, Scar. That’s all.”

“I know. I appreciate it. But I can look out for myself, too.”


	3. Voyage to Hell

“I would welcome you to the Order of the Scourge,” the masked knight said to the cluster of people gathered on the space-schooner that carried them towards the massive craft, only a little smaller than a space station, referred to as Citadel Demain Nova. “But you are not yet a part of it. You are Armigers, initiates, and as such, you will follow my orders to the letter. Any hesitation, question, or failure to comply will result in punishment. Depending on the severity of the infraction, this may range from a whipping to removal from the Order to execution. Don’t let that last one unsettle you. Most of the time, Armigers lack the free will for such extreme action as would lead to it. I assure you that you do not want to be a special case.”

Scarlett struggled to keep her face neutral, rather than letting it twitch into a frown. Fortunately, their commander was focused on the person to her left.

“Whatever you do, do not look into my eyes,” he growled. “Keep your head up. Did no one ever teach you the meaning of  _ stare into space _ ?”

To an android in the third row, he demanded, “Spit out your gum.”

“Where, sir?” the android’s slightly technological voice wondered.

“Where,  _ Signifier, _ ” the knight corrected. “I am not an officer. Spit it on the ground, and take care not to step on it later.”

“Yes, Signifier,” the android agreed, ejecting a wad of gum from its mouth. It landed on the ground between Scarlett and the person the Signifier had lectured about staring into space.

“And you.” His pacing brought him to stand before Scarlett, and she fought to contain the expression of surprise at how much taller his horned helmet seemed up close. “Tell me your name.”

“Scarlett Duma, si— _ Signifier _ ,” she corrected quickly. The person to her left snickered, earning a burning red glare from the holographic eyes in the Signifier’s mask.

“You will not laugh,” he said, voice growing to a sharp bark. “You are not qualified to laugh at my comments without permission.  Your body no longer belongs to you. That goes for all of you, especially the women. I won’t go easy on you just because you break more easily. Until you attain the rank of Scourgeknight or Signifier--  _ if _ you live to attain it-- you are my Armigers, and I will tell you when you can eat, when you can sleep, when you can speak, when you can laugh, and when you can piss. And if you have a problem with it, you can keep it to yourself and do what I tell you anyways, because this is the Order of the Scourge, not Bastion basic training. I’m not some Steward sergeant. I don’t do ‘drop and give me twenty.’ But perhaps your three hours studying the meager rules laid out for Armigers wasn’t enough.” His mouth, the only part of his face visible beneath the mask, twisted up into a smile. “Perhaps you’ll be more motivated to follow the rules if I give you a taste of the punishment for breaking them.”

With the grinding hiss of heating air, the plasma elements along the tongues of the flail the Signifier held flared to life. He struck it once against the Armiger’s back. The man cried out.

“Yes, Signifier,” he said, wincing, catching his breath, straightening to stare into space again.

“Did I give you permission to speak?”

“You implied it,” Scarlett said, and the Signifier’s glare switched back to her, or at least the projections on the helmet made it seem as though he did.

“There is no such thing as  _ implied _ to an Armiger,” he snarled. “For your insolence, you will be referred to as Harlot until you earn your name back. If you continue to make comments like that, that day will be no sooner than the day you attain a rank equal to mine, or the day you are removed from the Order, one way or another.” His eyes snapped back up to the rest of the Armigers, nine in total. “And because I may sometimes bring in another of my rank to stomp all over you, you may refer to me as Signifier Drayne. This may be the Material Plane, but in case the name wasn’t enough for you, as far as you’re concerned, this is the next best thing to Hell. The Citadel approaches. I hope you’re ready for the fire.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, now that I've got you hooked (hopefully), we talk logistics.  
> I've posted the first three chapters for now, and plan to update weekly. Expect the next chapter next Monday.  
> Thanks for reading, and feel free to drop a comment!


	4. To the Letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rarely live up to my content warnings this early in a work.

“Armiger Duma.”

Scarlett startled, realizing suddenly that the Signifier was speaking to her. “Not ‘Harlot,’ Signifier?”

“Not anymore. You’ve outperformed my expectations, which is much more than can be said for most of your unit. Congratulations, you get your name back. Don’t expect it to last.” He fell into silence, as if daring her to speak out of turn.

“Yes, Signifier,” she hazarded.

“Come with me,” he said, not waiting to see if she followed, but turning. The rubies set into his armor, arranged in the pattern of bloody whiplashes, glinted in the light, and knowing she was compelled to follow his orders, she followed him further into the Citadel than she had ever been before. The great infernal engines that kept it running also lit the great corridors dimly.

Drayne keyed his way into a door by scanning his handprint and his irises, then another, leading Lett down a pair of hallways. They looked much like the Armigers’ barracks, but the rooms were larger, and a name was inscribed in Infernal next to each door. The Signifiers’ quarters, she realized, and an invisible iron hand clenched her stomach. Surely enough, Drayne led her to the room at the very end of the hall, the one marked with his name, sealing the door behind them.

“These are my private quarters,” he said, gesturing around the small room. “Not much to look at, but in the grand scheme of things, a Signifier is only a Scourgeknight with special qualifications.” With what might have been a laugh, he lifted a hand to his mask and removed it, setting it on a table beside the bed. He was younger than Lett expected—in fact, he couldn’t have been much older than she was, if he was older at all. His hair was longer than the close cut required of male Armigers, and two dyed red streaks ran through the deep black, reminiscent of horns even without the helmet. He was certainly Chelaxian, given his dark hair and pale skin, but his eyes were a startlingly clear blue. All of this, Scarlett absorbed in a few brief seconds, then turned away, wondering whether she was even allowed to see him unmasked.

“You can look at me,” he said with a wisp of a smile. “No one will bother us here.”

She glanced up again. He had unfastened his gauntlets, and laid them beside his helmet. A suspicion had begun to form, and with it a sense of dread, about why he had brought her here. As he silently doffed the rest of his armor, it grew, but she dared not ask. She could only hope the many-tongued whip he carried would be set aside with the rest of it.

Beneath his armor, he wore a black skinsuit reinforced with thicker red materials where the chinks in his plate lay. He stopped at that, and came close to her, and she realized that without the plated boots and the horns, he was a good deal shorter, shorter than her, even.

“How many men have you been with, Scarlett?”

She cast her eyes down. The iron fist clenched around her stomach now grasped her heart instead. “N-none, Signifier. Y-you would be my first.”

His hand traced over her cheek, like the brush of a feather, and she inhaled sharply. “Surely that can’t be. Someone as pretty as you, and a fresh graduate of Absalom University? Didn’t you have any fun on weekends? Go out? Get laid?”

“I wasn’t exactly the party girl type,” she said sharply, and then hastily added, “Signifier.”

“Then I have much to show you.” His hand found the fastening line on her skinsuit, and the thin carbon-fiber peeled away at the edges. As per regulations, she wore nothing underneath, and she winced as his hands rolled it off, not because it hurt, but because there was no way to tell him  _ no _ .

_ He is my Signifier. I do his bidding. I do not question his direction, even if I suffer for it. _ She gritted her teeth as his own skinsuit was peeled off, as his hands ran down her bare back, as he led her to the bed. Her eyes squeezed shut in shame, and all but a little of her breath evaded her for the next few minutes. It almost felt pleasant for a little while, until she forced that thought back with a wave of guilt, and then there were only layers of pain; the sharp tug of skin on skin, the dull ache of discomfort from supporting his weight, the twist in her gut, the lump in her throat, and the sudden, cutting realization that what he had told them on the first day was true. Her body was no longer her own.

“I’m sorry if it hurts,” Drayne said quietly, startling her. “I try to be gentle, but that isn’t exactly the way I learned.”

Tears budded in the corners of Scarlett’s eyes. So many things she wanted to say ran through her head, and she tried to corral them back, but one reached her tongue, slipping from her lips like a snake. “That isn’t it. It’s just… you could have asked. You knew you were my first.” Then, realizing she had spoken aloud, her eyes widened. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken out of turn.” She closed her eyes, expecting a few vile words, or something worse, maybe even the scourge; and when nothing came, she opened them again, tentatively.

He shook his head. “You’re right. I should have asked. I’m sorry.” He had pulled out, and sat on the edge of the bed, resting his elbows on his knees.

“How many other women have you been with, Signifier?” she wondered.

With a bitter laugh, he began, “I can’t believe I’m giving you the honest answer, but… human women? None. So if it helps, you’re my first, too.”

“It doesn’t help at all,” Scarlett decided. “In fact, that makes it worse, because I’m guessing you learned from a succubus, or twenty.”

“I don’t need your commentary, Armiger,” he growled.

“Did I hit a nerve?”

“Shut up.” He stood. “Put your skinsuit back on. You rank lower than dirt right now. You don’t get to ask me questions, or question my orders.”

Scarlett’s mind raced, trying somehow to fix the situation her loose tongue had ruined. “Signifier… if I’m right, neither of us were exactly… satisfied. Are you sure you don’t want to…”

He sighed and sat back down. “Is that okay?”

“What’s done is done.” Her voice trembled as she forced the words out. “I’ve already been defiled. Is there anything else you can destroy?”

“Please don’t phrase it like that.” His voice, which only moments ago had been harsh and commanding, sounded broken, on the verge of tears.

Both of them were silent until Drayne finished. They both dressed, and he escorted her back to the Armigers’ quarters, neither saying a word. She wasn’t alone, of course. She shared her wing with two others, the other females from her unit. She glanced over their sleeping forms, wondering whether he would do the same to them. She pondered warning them, but that would mean admitting what he had done to her, and if he learned she had told them… She shuddered.

And as the suddenness of it wore off, as the adrenaline and shock subsided, she lay awake in her bunk, feeling a lump in her throat, trying to force out the tears she knew were hiding, trying to pity herself enough to cry over what had happened. All she found, though, was worthlessness, self-hatred, and emptiness.

_ The sooner I attain my rank, the sooner I can leave him behind. _ The thought was sudden, but she realized it was true. Signifiers didn’t command Scourgeknights; they were usually considered to be on the same level. 

So she spent every free moment she was given studying the various types of devils, picking one that met the requirements and reading deeper into the detailed summoning and binding rites.

When she approached Drayne during their allotted hour of personal time, he closed the door behind her and removed his mask, and she winced, remembering.

“Well?” he wondered when she said nothing. “Do you have a question? A message? Spit it out.”

She inhaled, casting her eyes downward so she wouldn’t have to look at his face. “I would like to submit my request for advancement, Signifier. That’s all.”

“I am sure you know how the advancement test works, then?”

Scarlett nodded. “I single handedly summon, bind, and battle a devil, and you sit, watch, and make sure I’m not cheating or something.”

“Was that sass, Armiger Duma?”

“No, Signifier,” she said, obviously lying, and surprisingly, Drayne did nothing.

“Then it is up to you to do your research.”

“I already have. I’ve acquired what I need for the summoning and binding. I will fight an atropocustra.”

Drayne was uncharacteristically silent for a while. When he finally did speak, it was quiet. “That is… quite ambitious of you, Armiger Duma. Most people at your level of training settle for a gaav, at most.”

“Respectfully, Signifier, I am not most people.”

“I never said I wouldn’t allow it. It would be a shame if all the work you did gathering your materials went to waste. Would you be ready to attempt your advancement now?”

Scarlett nodded. “At your word, of course.”

“I will ready a ship,” he said, and much to her relief, he put his mask back on. “And I will recruit a temporary commander for the rest of your unit. I will return in fifteen minutes. We leave in half an hour.”

He strode out the door, and it closed behind him, sealing Scarlett in.

“Dr. Narl was right,” she muttered to herself. “It’s a fight to hang onto my heart and mind.”


	5. Silver and Sacrifice

The barren landscape of one of the many asteroids of the Diaspora stretched around her. Though its surface gravity was similar to that of the Station and the Citadel, it had barely any atmosphere, and she wore a basic set of black plate armor. For an Armiger, such dress was reserved only for special occasions, advancement the most special among these.

Scarlett filled the markings on the pentagram she had drawn out with silver filings, then studied what she had drawn, comparing it to the image on her holoprojector. Everything was in order, of course. Her aptitude for perfection had only increased as an Armiger, where what was imperfect was punished.

She murmured the ritual. It was, of course, in Infernal, a language she had never expected to learn, though she knew the meaning of every word that crossed her lips.

The devil she had summoned took form, its arms crossed over its bare chest.

“An Armiger,” it wondered. “Do you summon me to fight me?”

“I summon you and bind you for such a purpose,” Lett affirmed.

“Then you are either a prodigy or a cocky fool.” The atropocustra stretched its arms upwards, yawning. “Are you going to break the circle and let me out so we can be done with this, or…?”

Scarlett took a deep breath and drew a line in the circle with her foot, and the atropocustra leaped at her immediately, leaving no time to think. It was a harsh skirmish, but Scarlett found the upper hand; her armor, plain as it was, prevented her from taking poisonous scratches, while she lashed at the she-devil at opportune moments, wearing her down slowly.

But something was not right. She found herself pushed back, turned about, shoved towards her own broken circle. Although the thing had been broken, it glowed and sparked.

“Armiger Duma,” Drayne said, through the communications unit embedded in her helmet, “stay out of that circle. That is an order.”

“You don’t have to order me, Signifier,” she growled under her breath. “Am I allowed to ask what’s going on?”

“She reformed it as she left. I should have expected nastier tricks from a higher-ranking devil. It’s an open circle now. She’s trying to turn it into a portal as you fight. I’m coming down there. I’ll make sure it stays broken. You focus on your advancement.”

At the top of the ridge where he stood, Drayne started jogging towards them as though his heavy plate weighed nothing. Scarlett blocked and dodged the atropocustra’s blows with waning speed, but it was almost vanquished. She caught its hand in the tongues of her flail, tearing it off with effort. Almost…

“Armiger Duma, I can’t break the circle quickly enough to stop the portal from opening.”

She barely heard him, at least until he issued an order. To that, her ears tuned reflexively, after nearly a year of taking them.

“Scarlett, are you listening? Get out of there! Leave her! This is too big for the two of us! The Paralictor will deal with it!”

“I’m not giving this up,” she growled, barely noticing he had used her first name. “Not now.”

“Armiger Duma, that is insubordination,” Drayne warned, as the portal shattered open, spilling a collection of lesser devils. “Get to the ship, now!”

The last word wavered as a surge of extraplanar energy disrupted the connection. Scarlett swung the flail as hard as she could, and the atropocustra imploded, leaving behind the faint smell of sulfur and ash.

“Signifier?” she wondered, but the commlink was broken. He waved to her from the ridge, acknowledging her victory; he appeared to be running to the ship. Between him and her stood a cluster of imps. They would be easy enough to deal with, but if something bigger came through…

_ Curses. _ A larger shape was taking form in the portal. Scarlett slashed at the imps, forging towards the circle. If she could break it again, the portal might close, depending on how it had been created. She knew she was no expert, but she had to try…

A glimmer in the sky distracted her. A ship—a pair of ships, neither of them Drayne’s. Neither of them Hellknight ships, in fact. Their red-and-silver paint job marked them Shieldcrafts of the Iomedaean navy. Scarlett scowled and turned back to the circle, but she had already been distracted for too long. The shape of the larger devil solidified, and with one more sweep of the flail, she banished the rest of the imps, diving towards the portal, hoping she could cut it off.

She barely remembered the battle. It was over in a few strikes. She severed the portal, but the devil was already through, swinging at her with a great clawed hand. She ducked out of the way in time that only her right arm received the blow, but her flail fell from her limp fingers. Swearing, she scrabbled for it with her left hand, and a man’s voice—though not Drayne’s voice—echoed in her ears. The devil swung at her again, wounded as she’d managed to make it, and she connected with the flail once more before it collapsed on top of her. Several of her ribs snapped, and she fell into oblivion, the only place short of death itself where she could escape the pain.


	6. Responsibility

Even unmasked, Drayne’s face showed no emotion, but inside his head, a sprawling mess of feelings he’d thought he had suppressed burned.

“The situation was handled, then?” wondered the Paralictor who commanded him.

“The Knights of Golarion handled it,” Drayne admitted bitterly. “And Armiger Scarlett Duma was killed. I was forced to leave her behind.”

“Yes. I know. Then she has failed the test?”

Drayne shook his head. “What happened was my responsibility, not hers. Armiger Duma summoned an atropocustra, and beat it easily, as it was distracted by turning her circle into a portal to Hell. It was swiftly closed, but a bone devil made it through. I found the shattered and melted remains of her armor and her flail. Nothing of her body was distinguishable from the ashes of the lesser devils she had already banished.” He hoped that the Paralictor didn’t hear the tremor in his voice. Signifiers were not allowed emotion, and he had been exceeding her expectations for too long to break them now.

“And what of the bone devil?”

“It was banished by the Knights of Golarion. Likely, they were responding to the presence of a portal to Hell. I don’t know how they found it so quickly, but that doesn’t really matter, does it?”

The Paralictor shook her head. “I would say to have your Armiger’s remains burned, but…” She waved a black-gauntleted hand. “Well, they already are, of course. Is there anything else to report, Signifier Drayne?”

He shook his head, then added, “Paralictor, I should be clearer here. Armiger Duma defeated the atropocustra by her own summoning and binding, as well as at least thirty unbound imps, before attempting to go one-on-one with the bone devil. I speak on her behalf when I submit a petition that she be raised posthumously to the level of Scourgeknight.”

“As long as you are witness to her test, it can be done. I will need to check your recordings.”

Drayne ejected a chip from his mask and laid it on her desk, saluting. “That concludes my report, Paralictor.”

She returned his salute swiftly. “You are dismissed, Signifier Drayne. Try not to get the rest of your Armigers killed.”

He made his way back to his quarters hurriedly, throwing off his mask as the door closed and collapsing on his bed, exhausted, but the voices arguing in his head wouldn’t let him sleep.

_ I killed her. I killed her by turning away. _

_ No. She chose to stay in the fight. She broke your orders. _

_ I could have gone back. Fought with her. _

_ You would have died with her. _

_ I could have died for her instead. _

_ Do you think you’re some kind of hero? Leave that shit to the Knights of Golarion. She hated you until the end. You raped her, and she never forgave you. _

_ She’s dead because of me. I got her killed. And considering the circumstances, I probably doomed her soul to Hell. _

That thought lingered for hours as he paced, scratching at the inside of his head, never quite drifting from his consciousness.

_ Why do you care? What did she even mean to you? She was nothing special, just another Armiger who took on more than she could handle. _

_ She died hating me, and I let her go to Hell. The real thing. _

An animal growl escaped Drayne’s throat, and he punched the wall with a gauntleted hand. Sparks flew where metal met metal.

The communicator set into his mask blinked, and with a sigh, he checked the message. The Paralictor’s voice played through it, though he didn’t bother putting on the mask for the hologram projection.

“Where are you, Signifier? This is your warning to return to your post. Your unit is currently unsupervised.”

“Never a sympathetic word,” he muttered. “Such a thing doesn’t exist to these people.”

He gathered his helmet and mask. They were back on his head before the door sealed shut behind him, hiding any trace of emotion he had felt, but fragments of phrases Scarlett had said to him still lingered.


	7. Projections of Light

Her eyes wavered, fixing on the ceiling. Her chest hurt—her left arm hurt, too, and a pulsating headache plagued her. She couldn’t feel her right arm or her legs.

_ What is this place? It’s pretty, but it can’t be Heaven. Nothing hurts in Heaven. _ A bitter laugh welled up in her throat, but didn’t find its chance to escape before she swallowed it again.  _ I say that as though I deserve to go to Heaven, anyways. After all I did. Summoning… torturing… _ Her thoughts trailed off. It cost effort to maintain them, and that effort left her with a pounding headache.

The whole ceiling was made from colored light, or at least it seemed to be. Her vision was blurry from tears she didn’t remember shedding. She tried to shift, to see more, but fire raged through her veins at the slightest twitch, and a gentle hand laid on her shoulder, startling her into more pain.  The touch felt warmer than it should have.

“If you move, it will take longer to heal.”

She blinked away some of the tears, her eyes wavering around. The ceiling  _ was _ made from colored light, projected onto a forcefield to look like glass. The sword-shaped vaults that supported the real structure of the place made it suddenly, abundantly clear where she was: in a temple of Iomedae—probably a cathedral, by its size, though not quite as large as the Swordlight Basilica on Absalom Station.

“Why are you helping me?” she wondered. “I’m a Hellknight. As you could maybe tell.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “An Armiger, to be precise, and certainly of no skill level to be dueling a bone devil. What is your name, Armiger?”

“Scarlett,” she said, trying to see the man who was speaking. Apparently, he noticed, because he stepped closer, into her field of vision.

“A lovely name,” he said, one corner of his mouth turning up into a smile, as though he knew something she didn’t. “I am Mihaluín.”

His white bodysuit, apparently an under-armor, matched his neatly cornrowed hair, in sharp contrast with his chocolate-colored skin. Though he was certainly a fullblooded elf, given his solid yellow eyes, he appeared elderly. A pair of golden spars passed through the points of his ears, shaped like tiny swords.

“Are you… in charge around here, sir?”

He smiled. “That is a good question. Am I really in charge, if I still defer to Iomedae?” He shrugged. “Who knows. The others seem to see me as a leader. If you’re stuck on being formal, you may call me Knight-Paladin Edamar.”

“Paladin?” Scarlett wondered. “I thought that was an old legend.”

“Well, as you can see, I am quite old,” he chuckled. “About a thousand and a century. I was a paladin before the Gap, and a Knight of Ozem before everyone forgot what Ozem was. If I remember nothing else, I at least have that.” He glanced at her. “What of you? How did you wind up as a Hellknight?”

“I was rejected from Bastion because my brother is a criminal.” She scowled, remembering. “Illegal violent protest, campaigning for Augmented rights.”

Mihaluín seemed unimpressed with something she had said. “I hope you aren’t entirely against those rights, Armiger. I should mention this sooner rather than later. Your right arm, part of your ribcage, and your legs were mangled beyond repair. I can provide a healing blessing, but it only goes so far. Knight-Technician Jenovere hasn’t connected the nerve endings yet. The rest of it seems to be functioning well.”

Scarlett jolted, remembering the limbs she couldn’t feel. “Oh, Hell.”

Mihaluín gave her a sharp glare, and she murmured, “Sorry.”

“It was the only way to save you, and I am bound by oath to save anyone I can.”

“Can you do anything about the pain?”

“That depends on how your body responds.” He lay both of his hands on her shoulders, and a burning sensation like she had felt before spread from his palms and into her skin. Some of the pain subsided, though some persisted, and some worsened. Scarlett closed her eyes, letting herself drift off again. Mihaluín lifted his hands, exhaustion clear in his own face, and retreated to his chambers, leaving her there.

She stirred again to find the projections dimmed, and the chapel she rested in dark except for them. A pair of quiet voices exchanged from beyond a doorway, and she tuned her ears to listen.

“…and did you plan to give her anything for it  _ besides _ your positive energy?” a woman, or at least Scarlett thought it was a woman, chastised.

“No. I didn’t need to. She is healing on her own. The mechanical part should be fine, should it not?” That voice was Mihaluín’s; the accent he bore was distinctively archaic.

“A cybernetic body feels pain the same as a biological one, you cretin.”

“We can assess options in the morning, Jenovere,” Mihaluín allowed. “When she is awake, and you have had some rest.”

The quiet clack of footsteps approached the doorway, and a woman who must have been Jenovere poked her head through. “She appears to be awake now. I’d like to get the nerves connected right before I go to bed, at least. Those are delicate, and if I don’t deal with them now, they might start reshaping on their own. As far as her brain knows, she doesn’t have those limbs. They’ll shut off.”

Mihaluín sighed. “Fine.” He slipped through the doorway beside Jenovere and came to stand over Scarlett again. “Scarlett? Are you present?”

Scarlett nodded slightly, wincing at a twinge in her neck that jolted all the way down her torso and her left arm. “About a quarter of me, yes.”

“Knight-Technician Jenovere insists on connecting the nerves tonight, although she very  _ desperately _ needs sleep.” Mihaluín added a pointed stare to that last phrase, though it was directed not at Scarlett but at Jenovere.

The woman returned the stare, then unfolded a set of tools she was carrying, setting them on a table that had been placed by Scarlett’s head. From what Scarlett could see of them, they looked like a terrifying mix of medical implements and engineers’ tools. A cybernetics kit, of course. Jenovere removed a gauntlet and set it beside the tool pouch, and her right hand, clearly not biological itself, reformed into some kind of holder, into which she set one of the tools.

“How do you do with pain?” she wondered, hovering over Scarlett’s shoulder with the tool.

“Usually fine,” Scarlett lied.

“Good. This won’t take long. Unfortunately, it will hurt.” She ran the tool down Scarlett’s shoulder, and she could suddenly feel part of her arm there. True to Jenovere’s words, it burned like hellfire, a sensation Lett didn’t have to imagine.

But it wasn’t  _ her _ arm. It took her a moment to realize the thing had no bones, just support struts. It felt cold; she knew her blood didn’t run just beneath the skin, but in a pair of coils at the center, one down and one up, meant to keep it flowing at a proper rate throughout the rest of her body. The tool Jenovere was using directed a company of nanobots to dive beneath her skin and pull lost neurons towards the artificial ones embedded in the prosthetic. She shuddered. She had learned all this stuff in her introductory cybernetics class, but feeling it was an entirely different experience.

“Turn over, if you can,” Jenovere instructed. Scarlett took a deep breath, clenching her teeth together in an attempt to quell the pain, and rolled herself onto her front side so that Jenovere could attach the nerves along her back.

The front had been painful, but it was outscaled by the pain of the back. The nerves Jenovere had been connecting in front were the ones just beneath the surface; she needed to start closing the loop before the nanobots would know where to look for connections. The stuff on the inside was being sealed together now. Scarlett’s teeth ground together, and she forced back the bile that kept trying to rise. Spots danced in her vision.

Finally, Jenovere was done. With a strange tugging sensation, the nanobots emerged, and the technician sealed them and the direction tool she had been using into a bag marked with the biohazard symbol.

“Goddess grant you sleep,” she said, rolling up her toolkit. “She knows I wouldn’t be able to sleep, after that.”

Scarlett attempted a bitter laugh; it emerged as a weak cough. “If you still have the faith to believe any of the gods care about us, then more power to you.”

“Need I remind you that you are in a temple,  _ Hellknight _ ?”

“Jenovere.” Mihaluín set one hand on her shoulder. “It is late, and you are both tired. Nothing you say is helping her, and I doubt anything you say will until she has had time to come to terms with the loss of half of her body. Get your rest. And you as well, Scarlett.”

With a sigh, Jenovere turned, a cape made from red carbonskin flaring out behind her, and strode through the door she had come in.

“I would advise speaking lightly around Jenovere. She has a reputation for ferocity, and is used to getting her way. She’s also highly suspicious of those who call Iomedae’s power into question. Perhaps… there is a phrase that I was taught in my moments of doubt. Perhaps it will help.” He said something in Chelaxian, of which Lett only knew the scraps still used among the Hellknights. “It means…”

“It means ‘my mercy is not mine,’” Scarlett guessed. “Right?”

“It means ‘my mercy is not mine  _ alone _ ,’” Mihaluín corrected. “You lack faith in the gods, our own among them. But she has allowed me to heal you. That shows that she has faith in you. That she cares about you and shares my compassion. Please don’t dismiss her without considering this.”

“But why would she want to help me? I’ve done horrible things, justifying them by the orders I was given. I studied how to summon and reason with devils, which meant I sacrificed small animals, and sometimes more sapient things. I tortured people for information. I condemned them for crimes they might not even have committed. I… I stood and watched as my Signifier passed sentence on another Scourgeknight. Whipped him to death. I would have been expected to do the same.”

Mihaluín’s brow furrowed, a look of concern growing in his eyes. He was silent for a while, mulling over the things Scarlett had said, and finally spoke, carefully, posing to her a question. “Do you think these things make you undeserving of the Inheritor’s mercy?”

“Of course they do.”

“Good. That was the easy question. Do you think they put you beyond forgiveness?”

It was Scarlett’s turn to pause and think. “I… don’t see how I could  _ be _ forgiven. Not after all of that.”

“Then you have a more severe problem than simply a lack of faith. You lack hope as well,” the elf recognized. “Let us find your hope first. It is the tool of survivors. For that is what you are, Scarlett. A survivor. And, Goddess guide me, I will help you continue to survive.”


	8. Seeking Hope

“Again,” Mihaluín said, lowering his sword from its position at Scarlett’s throat. “You are still not fast enough.”

“It’s this arm,” she excused. “I’m still not used to it.”

“You won’t gain the speed you need if you keep blaming the arm,” the old elf said. “Oh, yes. It’s unfamiliar. It doesn’t align quite right with your neural circuitry. But it’s what you will have to live with now. Your body will not change for the better, so your mind must.”

“If I may offer a suggestion?” wondered one of the others in the training room, joining them as his sparring partner bowed and walked away. The dazzling light-sword he was holding, the mark of a solarian, melted into a small speck, a singularity that floated around his head. Scarlett thought for a moment that he was wearing full-body armor, until she realized that his t-shirt and loose shorts settled over the top of it, and the red-etched metal made up his entire body with the exception of his head.

Mihaluín nodded. “You are always welcome to offer advice, Knight-Colonel Pintor.”

Scarlett startled at the address of rank. Were he a Hellknight, this solarian would be at least a paralictor; maybe even the order’s Master of Blades. Before she could say anything, though, Mihaluín stepped aside, and Pintor took his place, face-to-face with Scarlett.

“Most computers have a mind of their own,” he said, bringing up his own right hand. “If you assume your body works the same way, you’ll never be able to use it to its fullest potential.”

Suddenly, his hand clenched into a fist, and came swinging towards Scarlett. Instinctively, she raised both hands to intercept it; her cybernetic one beat her biological one by a long shot, and she stopped his fist inches from her face.

“Good. That’s the speed Knight-Paladin Mihaluín is looking for. How did you do that?”

Scarlett stared at her hand, uncomprehending. “I don’t know. I just acted on instinct.”

“Exactly. And that arm answered. It’s a part of you, and your brain is its control center, like it would be with a natural arm. Try it again, with the blade.” The singularity of light turned back into a sword in his hand, sweeping down towards her. She brought her sword up to block it, putting far less thought into the motion than she had before, and the arm responded far quicker. It was a sloppy block; she undershot where she expected their blades to meet, and wasn’t braced for impact. His strike sent a jolt down her arm, a sensation she didn’t expect the artificial limb to experience. But as he tried to shove her off balance, she funneled more effort into the construct, forcing it to hold its ground until he dispelled the sword once more.

“Good,” he encouraged. “Well. Good speed. Good power. There’s always something else to work on. Some amateur swordsmen don’t think enough about their technique. You think too much about it. You weren’t trained with a sword, but you know how to fight.” He backed off, dismissing the solar blade again. “Thank you, Knight-Paladin. And you as well, Squire Scarlett.”

“Squire?” She arched an eyebrow, looking to Mihaluín for an explanation.

He frowned blankly, then finally realized what she was asking. “Oh. You don’t know what  _ squire _ means. Goddess, am I really that old?” He shook his head. “It originates from the knightly orders of the Inner Sea, on Golarion. It means someone who hopes to become a knight. Our equivalent of Armiger, you could call it.”

Scarlett mulled over that in her mind. “Why would he assume I’m a squire?”

“Because I’m training you, most likely. I have trained Knight hopefuls before. That’s what this has all been, the things I’d put my squires through. It’s the best way I know to help people find their inner light. A bit of a different process from Armiger training, I’d expect.”

Lett nodded. “That’s an understatement. I feel… I don’t know. Human. I feel human, here. On Citadel Demain, I’m like a robot. Not like an android. Like a robot built to do a series of specific tasks. I’m not supposed to have feelings or opinions. I was subject to my Signifier, who was subject to the Paralictor who commanded him, and if I dared talk to anyone other than him, or the other Armigers in my unit, I’d end up on the wrong side of a scourge.”

Mihaluín shook his head sadly. “Those taught by punishment only grow to hate their teachers. The Hellknights’ history, or what remains of it, is practically drawn along the guidelines of petty revenge. An Armiger hates his teacher, and in anger defeats the devil required for him to advance, to prove that he is worthy of making his own choices. And in the end, all of it feeds back together and strengthens Hell at the same time each Order attempts to gain some dominance over it. The anger, the spite, the hatred, the passive aggression, the punishment of minimal acts. I respect their fighting ability and their sense of unity, but in my opinion, the price is too high to pay.”

“That’s fair. That makes sense. But there’s one thing I’d really like to know about the Knights of Golarion.”

“What would that be?”

“If not through spite, how do you motivate people?”

“By showing them that there is more to life than surviving. By treating them like humans, and then showing them what a human can do.”

“What do you mean?”

Mihaluín nodded towards Pintor, who was now sparring with Jenovere across the room. “Pintor came to us because his solarian mentor refused to teach him after he lost most of his body to a disease. She said that something built rather than born could never harmonize enough to manifest, and even if he could, he had been corrupted for too long. A Knight who is no longer with us helped him to realize that stellar manifestation isn’t only about physical harmony, and even if it was, a machine can harmonize more easily with the mathematical patterns found in stars. He’s one of the only solarians I know who can use his mote outside of combat.”

“If you give a man something to prove, he will prove it twice over,” Scarlett murmured in Azlanti, citing a proverb she had learned.

Mihaluín gave that small smile again, the one that said he knew more than she did. “Have you ever heard the other half of that adage?”

“That’s only half?”

“If you give a man something to prove, he will prove it twice over. If you give a woman something to prove, she will prove it ten times.” He sheathed the sword he was still holding. “Or eleven, in some cases. That is enough for one day, Scarlett. You seem to be having difficulty with that arm, after all.”

“I’m doing just fine,” she said, offended, then, realizing, “You’re trying to give me something to prove, Knight-Paladin.”

Mihaluín said nothing, but Scarlett saw his mouth curl up into a smile as he turned away.


	9. Somewhere to Go

“They sent a  _ scroll? _ ” Jenovere shook her head, plucking it from the package teleporter. “Hellknights never fail to amuse me. I thought  _ I _ was a drama queen.”

She set it on the desk between Mihaluín and Scarlett. The paladin offered it to Scarlett; it was sealed in black wax, and the mark of the Order of the Scourge looked as though it had also been sprayed with a red metallic paint. “I suppose you would like to do the honors, Lett.”

He had shortened her name by her request.  _ Scarlett _ had been too much; the way he said it was too much like the way Drayne had. “I suppose I should.”

She reached for the scroll and broke the seal, and as she read, a holographic projector set into the paper copied the words as they were written, so that Mihaluín and Jenovere could read.

“Regarding your inquiry into the status of Scourgeknight Scarlett Duma…” She paused, taking a deep breath. The very words were difficult to read. “Paralictor Drayne, once her Signifier, informed me that she died during her advancement test, although she passed the test and was promoted from Armiger. If she is alive, the Lictor would request that she return to Citadel Demain at once to face her punishment for desertion. Further information cannot be disclosed unless you provide a reason for your inquiry. Signed and sealed, Paralictor Ceria Fevuro.”

Silence reigned, until Jenovere broke it. “Well… what do you intend to do?”

Lett laughed bitterly. “What can I do? The punishment for desertion is fifty lashes, enough to kill all but the strongest. Twenty-five if I turn myself in, theoretically, but it’ll turn into more. It always does. I’ve seen a monitored reckoning. I know what happens. And if I don’t return, and I’m caught, I’ll get all fifty anyways. Not that I have anywhere to go. My father hates me for joining up with the Hellknights in the first place; he’ll just say I have to deal with the consequences of my actions. My brother is an Augmented activist who’d laugh and spit something about karma in my face before throwing me out on the street. My mother is dead, last seen in an Eoxian fighting pit.”

“What about friends?” Jenovere wondered.

“Do you think if I had friends, I’d have joined the Hellknights in the first place?” Lett shrugged. “There’s my old roommate from university, I guess, but she’s a Starfinder. I doubt she’d even recognize me, with all the new faces she’s seen.”

“You could stay here,” Mihaluín said. “Continue training as my squire. Cathedralship  _ Mercy  _ is a few hands short, anyways.”

Lett frowned. “Isn’t that breaking some part of your oath? Hiding me from the law?”

“The Hellknights are not a sovereign force in the Pact Worlds,” Mihaluín reminded her. “And even if I was breaking the law in hiding you, I would be saving you from death. I have been a paladin for a millennium. I believe I have a good sense of what is and isn’t a breakage of my oath. Inheritor strike me if I am wrong, but as far as I know, sending you to die at the hands of the Hellknights is far closer to a breakage than hiding you from them.” His golden eyes focused on Lett; she didn’t know how she could be so sure, pupil-less as they were, but she could have sworn it. “There it is. The flicker of hope, at last. Yes, Lett. You can stay here. I would be honored to have you as my squire, if you would have me as your teacher.”

Lett stared into his eyes for a second, then broke the stare. It felt as though he was gazing straight into her soul. “Then I’ll stay. As long as you don’t try to convert me.”

The paladin smiled. “Convert you? I wouldn’t dare. Not against your will, anyways. But a few more swordsmanship lessons can’t hurt, right, Squire Lett?”

In spite of herself, Lett couldn’t help but return his smile.


	10. Guide My Shield

Along with being trained in the sword and taking a few lessons in solarian philosophy from Knight-Colonel Pintor, over the last month, Lett had learned the basics of starship gunnery. The Knights of Golarion lent themselves to fighting threats to the safety of various societies, and though the Pact Worlds had their own forces designed to keep such threats at bay, the Knights still played a role as well, especially where political tensions restricted the Stewards from interfering. Cathedralship  _ Mercy  _ was one of several assigned to the system for a period of eleven months, along with its complement of smaller ships. Amongst it all, there was precious little time for rest, so when Mihaluín knocked on the door of Lett’s quarters, she stirred slowly.

“Squire?” The paladin’s voice echoed through the dim room, punctuated by the cathedralship’s alarm bells tolling in the background. “I think it is time that you join us on a mission. We’re called to ground on Triaxus. A pair of dragon brothers are settling their father’s estate with a duel, and we’ve received complaints about the collateral damage. Don your armor and take up your sword.”

Lett nodded, pushing herself out of her bunk to land on her feet. She clasped her armor into the red-and-white bodysuit she was wearing; it was designed to fasten in easily so that it could be donned more quickly. Her sword, a lesser molecular rift prototype that Jenovere had been working on, lay on a low table extending from the wall on the other side, and she clipped it, in its magnetized sheath, on as well. Mihaluín waited outside her door, and they walked side-by-side to the lower levels of the ship, where a vast parade ground spread out a floor above its fighter docks. Most of the Knights were already there; those who had just come off their watch rubbed sleep out of their eyes before replacing their gauntlets. As Mihaluín and Knight-Colonel Pintor approached, though, they all straightened and snapped to attention. Pintor’s voice echoed across the parade ground although he had no microphone, explaining the situation and assigning squads of Knights to different tasks.

“Knight-Paladin Mihaluín, accompanied by his squire and Knight-Technician Jenovere’s unit, will lead the separation force,” Pintor assigned, and Lett startled, realizing this included her. The separation force was the group of soldiers held in reserve until they were sure the dragons in question couldn’t be placated by diplomatic means. There was a chance they wouldn’t be needed, but if they were, it was a dangerous job, risking heavy casualties.

“Are you sure you want me along for this?” Lett wondered softly to the elf.

“I would not have volunteered to lead the separation force if I lacked confidence in your ability to deal with a dangerous situation.”

Lett nodded, swallowing a nervous lump in her throat. She hadn’t been in a real combat situation since her attempt at an advancement test.  _ But that’s the whole point of being a Knight of Golarion. You move on from the ill memories of your past. You push past the fear of facing things that hurt you once upon a time. _

Out they went, boarding the smaller Shieldcrafts that would take them to the surface. The fight was visible from high above; arcs of lightning and balls of fire among which the smallest were the size of houses were exchanged between the two parties in question; one red-scaled, one blue. A town glimmered from nearby. As they drew closer, Lett realized that the town was nearer to the site of the duel than she had thought; a generator must have been knocked out, or that side of town abandoned, for all the buildings were dark.

They hovered for some time, and the longer they waited, the more nervous Lett grew. The dragons danced ever closer to the town, the blue driving the red back until he was practically stepping on the outskirts.

“Separation force, come in,” said Pintor’s voice over the comms.

“We’re on our way.” Mihaluín steered the craft down towards the battle. “Jenovere, get your squad ready. Lett, when they go, you follow them. Stay in the formations you learned as they’re called until you’re told to fall back.”

Lett nodded, trying to contain her nerves, and went with Jenovere’s squad.

“First mission?” the Knight wondered, her face as flat as an android’s.

Lett nodded. “Yes, Knight-Technician.”

“Then you’ve never prayed before a battle, I take it.” Jenovere clasped Lett’s left hand with her right, and the squire stiffened.

“I’m not exactly religious,” she said, trailing off at Jenovere’s frown.

“Perhaps not.” The Knight-Technician maintained her grasp on Lett’s hand. “But if Iomedae cares enough to answer our pleas, then our time was not wasted. And if, as you seem to believe, she doesn’t, then all we have wasted is time that would otherwise have been idle. I find it troubling that you maintain such an apathetic belief after a month’s training under the Knight-Paladin, but that is not a matter for just now. Take Knight-Sergeant Keiru’s hand, please.”

Reluctantly, Lett joined hands with the Knight on her right side, and Jenovere bowed her head, waiting for silence.

“Lady of Valor, we ask for your guidance,” she said, her voice cutting through the outside noise of the ship’s engines. “Guide our shields, that we may defend our comrades. Guide our swords, that we may drive back the enemy. Guide our hearts, that we may keep fighting, even when the day is all but lost.” She unfolded her hands and glanced up, and as she did, something seemed to burn in her eyes, almost like the golden light of the positive energy Mihaluín channeled.

_ Maybe there is something to it all, _ Lett thought fleetingly, and then the ship landed with a bone-jarring lurch, and Jenovere slid the door open, bringing up the rear of the formation as all the others fell into it; thirty-seven Knights, Mihaluín, Jenovere, and Lett. They left the ship’s gunners, and the auxiliary pilot, just in case.

The dragons were underwhelmingly sized, up close. Lett changed formation as the others did, fanning out between them.

“Brothers Kondrirth and Zambeot,” Mihaluín said, breaking from the formation, standing in place directly between the two of them. “We have tried to be reasonable, but you are putting the people under Serozanyxia’s protection in danger. Find your territory elsewhere, or we will be forced to act against you.”

The blue one laughed. “Fool of a Knight. So little has changed in these last centuries. The memories of Before are fleeting, but you paladins, and your stupid people, have always made good eating.”

Mihaluín raised his sword to the sky, and it beamed with golden light. “Then let the battle begin. I challenge you to a duel, Zambeot. I will not step from this field of battle until one of us falls, or until you break my challenge by sending in your thralls.”

“What is he doing?” Lett wondered.

“What does it look like? Creating less work for us.” Jenovere drew her sword, and a humming shield of reddish light appeared from a generator on her left forearm. “Melee half-squad, advance on the Red Dragon, Kondrirth. Gunner half-squad, maintain distance; we’ll cover you. Scarlett, on me.”

The earth beneath their feet shook suddenly, as a crunch of shattering stone and then thunder echoed across the highland plain. Lett turned over her shoulder to look; Mihaluín, standing atop a spire of rock that had apparently been turned upwards when the dragon’s lightning had broken the ground, shoved his shield back at the great lizard, pushing off a claw before diving in again with the sword.

“Show-off,” said Jenovere, who had also turned back for the moment, with a smile. “He says don’t mind him, then pulls something like that. Won’t teach any of us his paladin secrets, either, although I’ve figured a few tricks out on my own.” She raised her sword as an example; it glowed faintly blue, and the temperature around it dropped suddenly, giving Lett goosebumps even beneath her armor. “Shall we?”

Lett drew her own sword; it swished as she pulled it from its magnetic sheath. It still felt strange in her hands, but she would have chosen it over a flail in a heartbeat.

They charged in side-by-side, stepping expertly around the dragon. It focused its jet of fiery breath on one of the Knights already surrounding it, and though his phase shield deflected the flames, he crumpled to the ground, his skin blackening from the heat alone. Lett shuddered, swinging at the knee of the dragon’s hind leg, where the scales folded up, slightly exposing the flesh beneath. It stepped back as she thrust forward, knocking her off-balance although the thrust connected.

“That isn’t how you use a longsword, idiot,” he said, bringing his leg forward again and kicking her. She lost grip of her sword, which clattered to the ground beneath his foot, but when he tried to step down, it sliced into his footpads, and he howled, kicking it toward her. She dodged it narrowly, and it landed next to her; she grabbed the hilt and scrabbled backwards, trying to push herself to her feet without leaving herself vulnerable.

The ground shook again, but she couldn’t spare the glance backwards. Kondrirth had inhaled deeply, and his head was turned towards Scarlett. She tried to force herself up, but at some point, her cybernetic wrist had come disjointed, and it failed to support her weight. 

Lett closed her eyes, defenseless against dragonfire, hoping her death would be quick, but when the blast came, it didn’t connect. She opened one eye to see Jenovere standing over her, her phase shield blocking the flames, and her cryoblade just behind it, shielding them both from the heat. She dispelled the shield, grasped Lett’s wrist and pulled her to her feet, and advised, “Stay behind him,” before turning it back on and charging forward.

As Lett made her way around, she realized that the blue dragon was no longer fighting Mihaluín. It lay limp on the ground, and the Knight-Paladin jogged towards them. He didn’t reach them, though, and Lett didn’t land another strike, until Kondrirth also staggered forward and Jenovere yanked her entire sword arm out of his mouth.

Mihaluín joined them as she sheathed her sword and dispelled her shield, a toothy grin lighting his face. “I win. Again. Your entire squad can’t beat an old man.”

Jenovere frowned. “Be serious, Knight-Paladin. Keiru is dead, and Scarlett would have joined him if circumstances had not aligned.”

_ Keiru. _ Lett hadn’t expected to recognize the name.  _ I held his hand when we prayed. _ Somehow, she had been able to distance herself before, but that distance was gone, and the realization that he was dead cut deep.

Mihaluín stared at Jenovere, and she fidgeted with her gauntlet. A mess of charred metal and burned or melted plastic covered her left arm, centered on the phase shield generator.

“You were injured as well,” he said sternly.

“I’d like to get back to  _ Mercy _ before I assess it. If the damage is serious, I can ask Knight-Medic Ziegler to reconstruct the tissue, or craft a spot prosthetic.”

Mihaluín frowned, tugging off her melted gauntlet and letting out the stench of burning flesh. “You won’t make it back with a wound like that. The adrenaline is wearing off. Two steps, and you’ll collapse.” He removed his own gauntlets, tucking them under his arms as he brought forth the healing energy he had used on Lett before. Jenovere gritted her teeth. “I’ll save you the trouble of fixing it, and in return, you can explain to me what happened as I fly us back to  _ Mercy. _ ”

Jenovere sighed, directing her unit to fall in. Two of them unfolded a stretcher from a pack that took up about as much space as a soda can, placing Keiru’s body on it for the short march back to their landing vessel. That march was done in silence, broken only by Mihaluín’s question once they had boarded.

“So. What happened, Jenovere?”

“Put simply, my prayer was answered.” She glanced sideways at Lett. “Iomedae guided my shield. The cryo-sword kept Scarlett and I from being killed by the heat of the dragon’s fire, but my shield arm was in front of it.”

The Knight-Paladin’s expression changed when Jenovere mentioned Lett. “Squire. She saved you?”

Lett nodded stiffly. “I didn’t listen to her orders. I went in without her, when I shouldn’t have, stabbed the dragon’s knee, and made it angry. As she said, I shouldn’t be alive. On Citadel Demain, I wouldn’t be.” She bowed her head, bracing herself for his response.

Mihaluín’s gaze flickered between the two of them for a moment, then he said, “Jenovere, you are dismissed. Assess if anything still needs to be done with that wound and get some rest. We’ll hold Knight-Sergeant Keiru’s funeral in a few days, once I’ve had time to contact his family.”

When she was gone, he focused instead on Lett. She expected harsh words, so the lack thereof only stung more.

“What happened to Jenovere was not your fault.”

“What do you mean? She jumped in front of that dragonfire to save me.”

“Of her own volition. Goddess bless her, she has a paladin’s heart, even if she has never taken a paladin’s oath.”

Lett frowned, remembering something the Knight-Technician had said earlier. “She told me that you refused to tell her your secrets.”

Mihaluín shook his head. “She has to frame it in that way every time. As though it is my fault. I don’t remember how the connection is forged. I’ve been sworn to follow Iomedae for nearly a millennium. Perhaps more, depending on how much was lost to us or warped by the Gap. The things I do… they are faith and instinct. If I remembered how I learned, I would have taught her more. If I remembered how the oath was sealed, I would gladly share my knowledge.” His voice rasped, and he cleared his throat; Lett was startled to see tears at the corners of his eyes. “The Goddess must know it is lonely work, being the last of her paladins. But for some reason, that doesn’t drive her to give me someone to teach.”

A knot of guilt and self-doubt formed in Lett’s chest.  _ I can’t be the squire he wants. He wants to raise another paladin, not a faithless former Hellknight. Why does he bother teaching me? _

A few seconds’ silence ballooned between them, hanging so thick in the air Lett was tempted to take out her sword just to see whether she could cut it.

“I’m sorry I can’t be that someone,” she said at last.

Mihaluín’s eyes came back into focus, settling on her. “Oh, no. Don’t apologize, Lett. I’ve trained so many other squires, none of whom were paladins. That doesn’t mean I care any less for any of you. I just wonder whether there is anything else I’ve forgotten. Anything else important.” He shook his head. “I am tired, and I’m sure you are too, as I woke you from your sleep for the mission. You’re dismissed, Lett. And you are welcome to attend Keiru’s funeral, as you are welcome to attend any temple service.”


	11. Sisters at Arms

Lett hadn’t taken Mihaluín up on his invitation to a temple service before, but when the day came, she did attend Keiru’s funeral. She sat in the back row, silently observing the ritual, and when it was done, she sat for a long while, not praying, just thinking.

_ If I die in service to the Knights of Golarion, will they hold my funeral in a temple? Dad would like that. _ She laughed at the irony, although really, it was more of a sniffled nose-exhale.  _ He’d probably like that I’m with the Knights, too, if he knew. Maybe I’ll tell him sometime. _

Jenovere slid into the pew beside her. The Knight-Technician’s arm was bandaged, healing well, and usually not visible beneath her armor. She had traded it out in favor of a blouse and skirt today, though.

“Am I interrupting?” she wondered, and Lett shook her head. “Good. I just wanted to make sure you know. I’m not angry with you. I don’t blame you for what happened to my arm. The Lady of Valor calls us to help those in need, to sacrifice what is necessary. You were in need. Your life is worth more than my arm.” She laughed. “It’s worth so much more.”

Lett sighed. “Even if you don’t blame me… I’m still sorry for being an idiot.”

“For crying out loud, Scarlett, I’m a cybernetics technician. I could lose a limb, or three…” Her voice trailed off. “I probably shouldn’t use that example around you. Sorry.”

Lett shook her head. “It’s fine. You did good work. And please. Call me Lett.”

Jenovere nodded. “My point is… bodies can be replaced. But your heart; not your physical heart, but your bonds and motivations; that can’t. Except for in very expensive neurocybernetic operations, your mind can’t. And your soul can’t. All of it together makes up a life.” She took a deep breath, as if pausing for air before diving back in, but her next phrase was short. “Why do you want me to call you Lett? It seems… informal.”

Lett pursed her lips, trying to phrase her response carefully. “Because I would rather be called by a nickname than the name my Signifier used for me.”

Jenovere’s brows raised in silent acknowledgement, and she punctuated it with a quiet, “Oh.” Then she said, “I guess… wanting to go by another name, at least, I can understand. Maybe I’ll tell you what almost no one else on this cathedralship knows. Jenovere is my first name.”

Lett frowned. “And your last?”

Jenovere’s mouth compressed into a thin line. “Tilernos.”

“Why not use your family name, if it’s one as prestigious as Tilernos?”

“It’s a long story,” she warned.

“I like long stories.”

“I wasn’t going to be a Knight.” She frowned. “I told my parents that I wanted to make my own way, and they were just fine with that. They already had a daughter to carry on the tradition. My older sister was obsessed with joining up. She had a custom set of armor built, had already arranged her squireship. I had a full ride to cybernetics school, and if I didn’t, my mum and dad would have paid for it anyways.” She took a shaky breath. “Goddess, I paint this like it’s a sob story. I’m sure you’ve been through worse. But… Kennith… my sister… died in a starship accident, in my last year of school. I didn’t graduate, though I convinced the dean to give me my license. I was expected to take her place, to uphold the family tradition. And when I started my squireship, it was clear that my mentor was expecting her, the strong, charismatic, pretty one. Not me. I was pretty scrawny, then. I was the brainy one. The second child. The replacement, literally. I was expected to do all kinds of great stuff, because I was a Tilernos. When I was knighted… I left that name behind. I asked to be just Jenovere, and Jenovere I’ve been ever since.”

Lett smiled. “You’re doing well, then, making a name for yourself.”


	12. Not Mine Alone

Officially, it was Lett’s fifth day as a Knight, and now the bells tolled again, signaling a fresh threat.  _ Mercy _ had been guarding the Pact Worlds system for four months, and though those months had passed while Lett was still in training, limiting her missions, they had occasionally found her soaring into battles with the Free Captains, assorted cultists around Aucturn, and the private craft of Eoxian reality TV stars.

Although she had been Mihaluín’s squire, she served as gunner for Jenovere in most space operations, as the paladin usually remained to command  _ Mercy _ itself. The gunner’s seat behind Jenovere was the seat she climbed into now, sealing the oxygen mask into her ornate helmet. In short minutes, they were off into the empty sky, responding to the call. A trade vessel had been ambushed by undead pirates between Eox and the Diaspora. Jenovere routed power to the thrusters, leading the charge.

Pirates were always vicious. They fought like they had nothing to lose, because they didn’t have much beyond the ships they flew. The undead ones, usually from the Corpse Fleet, fought even more fiercely, as most of them didn’t even have lives to lose anymore. But they knew the Knights did, of course. On the few missions Lett had been on, other Knights besides Keiru had been killed. Once, Lett had seen a ship careening through the vacuum, ripped open to the void, its two-man crew dead from the pressure change, frost crystals lining their eyelashes. It was a horrific, but blessedly rare, reality.

The battle went surprisingly quickly, especially compared to Lett’s perception of it. Only six minutes had passed when the last of the pirates appeared to turn tail and flee. Their victory secured, the Knights banked around, ready to return to base. Jenovere followed; she had been first heading out, so she was last heading back.

Their scanners suddenly overloaded, the device giving a soft click as it heated and burned out in the low-atmosphere cabin. Straight ahead of their ship, steering itself towards a head-on collision, one final, unwounded pirate vessel revealed itself, forged of bone as Eoxian ships tended to be. Jenovere steered away, but its hull clipped theirs, burning through their shields and shattering the void-shield, knocking Jenovere’s helmet backwards. It unfastened from her head, and Lett heard Jenovere try to gasp for air faintly, and then her comm channel went dead. She unfastened her harness, bracing herself inside the ship by her feet, switching channels to the other one to report the incident, and trying to reach Jenovere and her helmet all at once. The frost was already starting to creep across the Knight-Technician’s face when Lett pushed it back down, and although the oxygen line was still attached, she heard no breathing.

One of the Shieldcrafts, the larger support ships, had turned back, but the moments stretched into hours. Panic gripped Lett as she realized there was nothing that could be done to improve Jenovere’s chances of survival, and Lett didn’t know enough about flying to bring them closer, even if the ship hadn’t been badly damaged. She grasped the Knight-Technician’s shoulders, but couldn’t reach to her chest or her mouth to assist her with breathing. The cabin was open to space, so the heaters wouldn’t help; she could only hope the ones in Jenovere’s suit hadn’t been damaged.

The other ship was still on its way. The clock said that two minutes had passed, and Jenovere hadn’t breathed.

_ Three minutes without breathing _ , Lett remembered learning in the Space Survival course she’d barely paid attention in.  _ That’s all the longer she’ll survive. Once they get here, it’ll take some time to move her into the airlock, repressurize, and get her to the medical bay. She won’t live, not like this, but I can’t let her die like this. I have to do something. Oh, gods… _

Her eyes, which had been squeezed shut in thought, flickered back open, realizing.  _ Gods. Maybe there is something I can do.  _ She glanced around, realizing she didn’t know how to address a god. With the exception of Keiru’s funeral, she hadn’t been to a church service since she’d lived with her dad, back in secondary school. She finally focused on the flaming sword icon etched into the shoulderpiece of Jenovere’s armor. 

_ Iomedae. You’re the Knights’ patron god, right? …I’m sorry if I lack faith… but if Jenovere lives to fight another day, I’ll swear myself to you. If I need proof that you care, that is the proof I request. Help me to save her. Please. _

She startled when, beneath her gloves, her hands grew warm, and through them, a golden glow shifted. Where she touched Jenovere’s shoulders, the Knight-Technician’s body absorbed the light, and a few moments later, Lett heard a gasping breath, and then another, come through the comm channel.

“I told you not to do that on my shoulders,” she said sharply through the effort-filled breaths, then blinked. “Wait, we’re still on the ship? What’s up?”

“Do…do you remember what happened, Knight-Technician Jenovere? Do you remember my name?” Lett wondered shakily, checking for a concussion, but forgetting the proper order of questions.

“Lett? I… I remember they made a Drift exit right on top of us. Not much after that. But the void-shield is cracked. That speaks for itself. I must have been pretty out of it. I thought… well, it felt like Mihaluín did his lay on hands thing, but obviously not, since he’s back on the cathedralship.”

Lett took a deep breath as the Shieldcraft pulled up alongside them. “No. Not him.”

Her shoulders were shaking, though with adrenaline, cold, or some side effect of the flow of positive energy, she wasn’t sure. She had to try three times to grab the hand of the Knight who offered it to pull them into the airlock, and blacked out as it repressurized.

She dreamed, only briefly, of a black-haired woman with a red carbonskin cloak, watching over her as she had slept in the temple of  _ Mercy _ . It was not Jenovere.


	13. Someone to Teach

Dizzily, Lett opened her eyes to the quiet buzz of _Mercy_ ’s medical bay, trying to focus on the shapes around her. Machines hummed over the ship’s engines, and a heart monitor made quiet pips at her side.

“What happened?” she wondered, although she wasn’t sure how many of the words were comprehensible, because it felt as though someone had stuffed her mouth with cotton balls, then removed them once they had sucked out all the moisture. “Why am I in the medical bay?”

“You and Knight-Technician Jenovere were both in bad shape.” The soft voice, which Lett had come to recognize because of its perpetual chiding undertone, belonged to Knight-Medic Ziegler. “Suffering from hypothermia and hypoxia, and both of your suits were improperly pressurized because of the damage to your ship’s oxygen reserves. I’ve seen worse, but not often on a survivor. It’s a miracle you both lived.”

Lett laughed weakly. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

Ziegler clipped a tray onto the side of Lett’s bed. “Here’s some food for you. It’s been about two hours, and your body temperature and blood oxygen levels are normal. It shouldn’t be much longer before you’re okay to stand up and walk around.”

The Knight-Medic was right, of course; about fifteen minutes later, Lett was able to climb out of her bed and walk up and down the aisle of the medical bay. Jenovere was already up, sitting in a chair at one end and scrolling on a datapad. When she saw that Lett was awake, she pushed herself to her feet, tucking the pad away.

“Thank the Lady. You had me worried, even though Knight-Medic Ziegler assures me I was in worse condition.”

Lett startled; she could see the venuation beneath Jenovere’s eyes, almost as though someone had punched her in the face, but the blood vessels weren’t broken. Along with that, her whole face was red, as though burned. “What happened to you?”

“Frostbite,” Jenovere summarized. “Hurts like Hell, but Ziegler tells me it’ll heal as long as I don’t touch it.” She glanced over her shoulder, then wondered, “Did you… do something? Did Mihaluín teach you something? Because I could’ve sworn…”

Lett shook her head. “I’d rather not talk about it where Knight-Medic Ziegler can overhear us. In fact, I’d rather talk about it between the two of us and Mihaluín. Has he been around?”

“He asked to see us both when you woke up, so it’s convenient that you would want to talk to him as well.” Jenovere stepped away from the chair, and they walked in silence to the bridge, where Mihaluín and the command crew led the ship.

“Ah, good. You are both awake.” He nodded to the captain, stepping away from his post. “If you don’t mind, we’ll take this to the temple.”

When they arrived in the cathedral proper, he closed the main doors behind them, usually a signal that a service was in progress.

“It is difficult for me to comprehend what has transpired.” His eyes flickered over Lett and Jenovere. “Knight-Technician, it seems that Lett, in her desperation to save you, has found the way to do what I cannot teach. A paladin’s oath binds her.”

Lett took a deep breath, exhaling it as a meditative sigh, trying to grab hold of her reeling thoughts. “How could you tell? I’m not surprised that you can. I just want to know how.”

Mihaluín frowned. “You were unconscious when I brought you aboard _Mercy_ after your last mission, so of course I tried to heal you, to restore consciousness. When I couldn’t, I moved on to Jenovere. She was conscious, of course, the whole time, if a little out of it, and giggly thanks to the hypoxia. I was surprised, because you’d said she had been knocked out, until I reached to heal her and felt that she had already been touched by Iomedae’s mercy, not minutes before. So I did what beginners and fools do. I asked the Inheritor directly, and I expected a response, and much to my surprise, she answered me as plainly as gods do, in a dream. She reminded me of my oath. She gave me someone to teach.”

Lett glanced guiltily at Jenovere. “What about you? I know you said you wanted to learn.”

“The Lady works in mysterious ways,” Jenovere said stonily. “As much as I would like to, it seems she has chosen you instead. I’ll stay out of this.”

“That isn’t necessary.”

Jenovere’s eyes widened for one moment, a flicker of hope that she reined in carefully. “What do you mean, Knight-Paladin?”

“When I said that Iomedae reminded me of my oath,” he said slowly, “I meant that she reminded me how it was forged. Knight-Technician Jenovere, if you, also, would like to train as a paladin, I would be willing to teach you both.”

She didn’t try to contain her excitement this time. Her grayish-amber eyes brightened, and Mihaluín smiled.

“Then both it is.” He lifted a datapad that had been tucked under his arm. “You are both familiar with the Knights’ Code, of course. The set of tenets once laid out for paladins is little different, but formally, the oath should be sworn in public. As we are, at present, patrolling the Pact Worlds, I see only one reason not to swear it at the Swordlight Basilica.” His eyes fixed on Lett. “And that is that there is a possibility, however small, that the Order of the Scourge will be represented, either in person or watching a newsfeed. It is a rather momentous occasion, after all.”

“Is there another option?”

“Not one that is convenient.”

Lett nodded. “Then the Basilica it is.”

The elf’s eyes wavered, the first uncertainty she had seen out of him. “Lett…”

“The oath I’ll be formalizing takes precedence over any ties I had to them, doesn’t it?”

“That doesn’t mean they will not use those ties to trip you up.”

“I spent over a year with them. I know how to watch my step. I can handle myself, Knight-Paladin.”

He sighed. “Tensions have always been high between the Church of Iomedae and the Hellknights. Perhaps you will be the keystone that finally drives us to understanding, or conflict.”

Lett made a face. “I have no desire to be any sort of fated hero.”

“You swore the first paladin’s oath to be accepted in at least three centuries,” Mihaluín said. “I think it is a little late to avoid becoming a hero.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (spot the Overwatch reference. I couldn't help myself)


	14. Bonds Reinforced

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The formatting on this chapter might be a little inconsistent. My apologies if that's the case; the spacing is showing up wrong for me and I can't figure out how to fix it. Enjoy regardless!

Lett’s fingers trembled, even her mechanical ones. In the past months, she had undergone many changes and noted many differences. Over the past two weeks, as Cathedralship Mercy coordinated with the rest of its fleet, the number had only grown, and now, as a stylized hovercraft carried them towards the Basilica, she noted one more.   
She had not been afraid of facing a greater devil, but she was terrified to face a god.   
_ She’s on your side _ , Lett reassured herself, trying to stop the quivering.  _ She isn’t going to smite you. _ __   
From across the ring of seats, Mihaluín took her hand. “You are nervous,” he observed.   
“Weren’t you?” Lett wondered. “Waiting to face a force so much more powerful and perfect than you could ever be?”   
The elf sighed. “Scarlett, she is a goddess of justice and mercy. Certainly she will judge you, but if there is an ounce of goodness in you, she will not harm you. And I think… I know… there is more than an ounce. She has already accepted you, on her own terms.”   
“You’ve already seen the Lady’s power,” Jenovere said. “Now your honor compels you to go through with this oath. So will you go through with it?”   
A wolfish grin interrupted Lett’s brimming tears. “Is that a challenge?”   
Mihaluín’s hands flew to his mouth in mock surprise. “Oh, dear. I’ve challenged the woman.”   
“Ten times over, Mihaluín,” Jenovere chided. “Look what you’ve done.”   
The hovercraft glided to a halt, and the elf straightened his cloak as he stood. “Show time.”   
Mihaluín led the procession, of course. He wore his full ceremonial plate today. Although it offered modern protections, the style was archaic; the wings that projected from his helmet were not holographic but solid gold. Lett was sure that the white-and-gold robes she and Jenovere wore paled in comparison, but the wing-shaped pauldrons resting over it weighed on her shoulders nonetheless.   
Together, they walked up the stairs to the Plaza, where a crowd of other Knights, clergy, and residents of Absalom Station waited. Lett wondered whether her father was among that throng. In fact, she wondered whether the Hellknights had bothered to tell him she was dead. She suddenly became conscious of the metallic arm beneath the three-quarter-length sleeves of the robe.   
_ It's okay. If any of these doubt you, you can show them what your augmentations are worth. _ __   
But it was as though her eyes zeroed in on him. Although most of the high priests stood behind them, a few of the Knights parted the way for Liam Duma, possibly comparing his shock of red hair and sea-green eyes to Lett’s own. More surprisingly, in the middle of a tight cluster of Steward officers and a pair of Sarenite priests, Adran was there too, in a jumpsuit that matched his carrot-top.   
_ Did they know? Do the Hellknights know? _ __   
She forced her eyes ahead and willed her heart to slow down. She couldn’t afford the distraction. Not now.   
_ Goddess, if Drayne is here… _ __   
She was almost to the Basilica. The array of statues spread out before and behind her, depictions of Iomedae’s miraculous acts.   
Just out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of black hair streaked with red. She strode with purpose, knowing full well that if that was Drayne, he could see her arm and her bare feet, all mechanical. But the doors of the Basilica were open to her, and Mihaluín and Jenovere wouldn’t stop for the things that made her nervous.   
The Basilica had been empty, but those for whom places had been reserved filed in. A great number of Knights; Jenovere’s squad, of course, filled multiple rows. Among the high priests stood a pair of people Lett now recognized as Jenovere’s parents, and, of course, her own father. She glanced at him as she passed, and just for a moment, she saw his eyes break from their attentive stare. Then he shifted slightly, placing a hand on the sword at his side as the honorguard of high priests was called to the ready.   
Mihaluín knelt before the great altar, and Lett and Jenovere followed his lead, though they did not rise with him, not until the ritual had progressed, and they were called to come forth and speak their oaths.   
They had been asked to precede the oath with a speech of their choice. Jenovere began, speaking far more warmly about the death of her sister than Lett remembered, and recited the oath flawlessly.   
“Rise, Knight-Sergeant Scarlett Duma,” Mihaluín said, and though Lett winced at the name, she understood the need for formality. “Come forth and speak what you have to tell.”   
Lett rose, and strode forth towards the altar. Although her back was to the spectators, the ceiling was acoustically arranged to carry her voice. She spent a few long moments breathing deeply, calming her nerves.   
“The oath I swear today seals a bond that has already been made,” she said, finally. “It is a bond that I did not expect to make. Knight-Major Tilernos and I both pledge ourselves today to the Lady of Valor, although a month ago I would not even have believed that she cared.   
“I was raised in this church, attending temple services every Seventhday and on holy days, looking to ancient heroes as my role models. I was a child then. I could not understand the life of a soldier. If you had asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would have said a Steward officer, but I wound up on a Hellknight citadel.”   
A murmur went through the crowd at that, and Lett chose to ignore it, continuing to speak. “I dislike speaking of what happened while I was an Armiger, but when I was left to fend for myself, the things I had learned then defined me. I held hatred and vengeance in my heart, and that day, I would have been okay with dying that way.   
“The moment that changed me was not when I was rescued by Knight-Paladin Edamar, however. Nor was it when I learned to use the cybernetics that replaced most of my body, or when I defeated a red dragon at the side of my comrades. It was not the day that I became a Knight and swore myself to the Knights’ Code.   
“The moment that changed me was a moment of victory turned into one of bitter defeat, of panic, of desperation. It was the moment that a Corpse Fleet ship shattered through the void-shield of Knight-Major Tilernos’ fighter, of which I was the gunner. I had nowhere else to turn, and if not for Iomedae’s mercy, neither the Knight-Major nor I would be standing before you. I did not believe she would answer my plea, but she did, and so I pledge my life to her, as I promised her then.”   
Lett placed her hands over the pommel of the sword set into the altar and spoke her oath. Its words, Mihaluín claimed, were one of the few things he had never forgotten, despite having forgotten the binding itself. As she spoke, and they settled into her soul, she understood why. Underneath her skin, even on the cybernetic side of her body, settled a burning sensation, charring away the weight of her mistakes from her soul. It was painful, at times, when it scorched too close to things she still held dear. She was surprised to find Adran among those things, and more surprised to find Drayne.    
With a deep, ringing silence, she realized that the oath was finished, and she pulled her shaking hands back.   
“The oath of the Inheritor’s Paladin has been spoken and accepted,” Mihaluín said, stepping around the altar with Jenovere, so that they all faced the crowd. To each of them, he offered the hilt of a newly-forged sword. “Knight-Major Jenovere Tilernos, also called Knight-Technician, you will now be titled Knight-Paladin Jenovere Tilernos. Knight-Sergeant Scarlett Duma, you will now be titled Knight-Paladin Scarlett Duma. Go in the Inheritor’s name to shed light upon those in darkness.”   
Each of them took her sword as it was offered, and raised it above her head with one hand, and Mihaluín clasped an amulet around her neck. With an honorguard of Knights this time, they processed out to stand beneath the statue depicting the Eleventh Act.   
Jenovere had many visitors, but the first to speak to Lett was Adran. As he stepped up to the circle of Knights, one of the Sarenite priests and three Stewards remained with him.   
“I didn’t realize it was you,” he said, peering at her curiously. “I mostly came because Sister Irin suggested.”   
Lett glanced at the Sarenite, who raised her hand and gave a toothy smile in silent greeting.   
“Well.” Lett tried to rein in her words, knowing that expressing her irritation towards him in front of the crowds of people who had just seen her take a paladin’s oath would not be ideal. “What do you think of it all?”   
He shrugged. “I didn’t see much of the ceremony. But congratulations regardless.”   
Lett followed his gaze, realizing it was fixed on her hand, and she folded it behind her back, where he couldn’t see it. An awkward silence grew between them before Lett said, “I hope you don’t expect me to start participating in marches just because I have a few prosthetics.”   
Adran’s gaze hardened. “I wasn’t going to ask you to. Just wondering who did the work.”   
“Knight-Techn—Knight-Paladin Jenovere,” she corrected herself. “As far as I know, she built it too.”   
The silence swelled again, and trying to fill the space, Lett wondered, “How long do you have left to serve?”   
“Six months. I may get parole in three, if I don’t get in more trouble. If I do, my first stop will be Dawnshore.” He glanced at Sister Irin, adding, “She’s been a… mentor figure to me, in a way. It’s funny, isn’t it? Dad shoved all this stuff down our throats as children, and we never bit, and yet look at us now.”   
Lett forced herself to meet her brother’s eyes. “Well… If you’re headed to Dawnshore… Good luck,” she said honestly. “And don’t break any rules along the way.”   
He laughed, although it was the awkward chuckle of a friend once familiar, now estranged, realizing that they had grown even farther apart.   
A collection of Absalom and Pact dignitaries came to offer their congratulations, and even a few Vesk ambassadors. If Drayne had been among the crowd, he never showed, but as it dispersed, and the high priests were allowed to leave their posts, one more visitor finally approached: her father, his eyes wavering along a line between stormy and relieved. The silence between them was even greater than it had been with Adran; it filled minutes.   
“The Hellknights told me you had died,” Liam said finally.   
“They assumed that I had. I thought it best not to correct them. Doing so would have meant going back to them, and receiving punishment for a crime I didn’t commit, which might have sealed my fate anyways.”   
“Knight-Paladin Edamar told us that the heir of House Tilernos would be raised to paladin today,” he said. “He didn’t mention that you would as well.”   
“I never told him that you were a high priest.” Lett shook her head. “I suppose it never really came up. Or maybe I was too afraid to bring it up. Afraid that someone else would pass the word on, and then you would think you’d won. It was petty of me. I’m sorry. Like I said… up until a few weeks ago, I was a Knight without faith.”   
Liam took a deep breath. “I accept your apology. I’m glad you can at least be honest with your own father. I should be honest with you as well. I am proud of you, of how far you’ve come. But I am also afraid for you. The Hellknights thought you were dead, but they almost certainly don’t anymore. And your faith is newly born, born out of your witness to a miracle. Take care that it doesn’t fade.” He stepped up to her, wrapping his arms around her in a hug, and she stiffened. He released her quickly. “Is something wrong?”   
“I just… don’t like being touched,” she excused. “I still have… bad memories. From Armiger training.”   
“Oh.” Then, “Sorry. I was trying to be fatherly.”   
“I know. It’s okay.”   
“Is it alright, now that your secret is out, if we keep in contact?”   
Lett smiled. “I’d like that.”   
After Lett and her father parted ways, she realized that it was the first time in almost eight years they’d spoken without a fight.    
“Strange mercies,” she murmured, watching him walk away.


	15. The Torment of the Past

Drayne closed and locked the door behind him, crumpling to the floor on legs too unsteady to carry him to the bed, or even the chair.  
_She’s alive. Thank the gods. I didn’t kill her._   
Tears of relief budded in his eyes, and remembering that he was not burdened with a mask, he let them fall, his back against the door, shaking from silent sobs.   
_A Knight of Golarion. A paladin. Out of my reach, but alive._   
His communications unit blinked suddenly, reminding him why he had come to the Station undercover in the first place. A message from the Paravicar. _Thank you for your firsthand account, Paralictor Drayne. We will assign a watch to Cathedralship Mercy and the rest of the Sixth Act Fleet._ It was dated fifteen minutes ago.   
_I have to warn her. She’s still alive now. I can’t stand back while the rest of the Order hunts her down and brings her in._   
But the other voice was still there, too, still nagging. The devil on his shoulder, he’d come to call it. _Why do you have such a fixation with her? You thought she was dead for months. Your orders were to confirm that she is here and report on your findings before returning to the Citadel. Trying to warn her, to allow her to escape justice for her own desertion, is a waste of time that will see you punished as well._   
“Shut up,” he said, out loud, running a sharp-nailed hand through his hair, grabbing hold of it and pulling, using the pain to ground himself. “Shut up. Remember what you were taught. Emotion is weakness.”   
_Is it really? It seems that your willingness to unquestioningly follow orders has weakened you far more, Paralictor._   
He dug his nails into his palms, staring blankly at the wall, until his head was silent and clear. Then he unfurled his hands, realizing he had broken the skin. Blood still flowed where his nails had dug in, though the surrounding areas were dry. He took a cloth, and the alcohol-based salve from his medkit, cleaning his wounds, never flinching though it stung far more than the injury itself had.   
Another message had been flickering on his comm unit, for most of an hour, he realized as he checked it.   
_Paralictor, I dispatched you to Absalom Station to investigate the situation with former Armiger Duma, but there is a situation that perhaps should draw more of your attention._   
A news clip was linked to it: security footage from Level 50’s notoriously exclusive Spikehead dock. In each of its four wings rested a starship, flat-paneled, mostly black with blue edges, designed for stealth. As he watched, a cluster of people emerged from a security hatch on one of the docks, and dispatched the patrol robot sitting by the ship’s gateramp. The other, standing by the door, pulled an alarm and the other ships exited the dock, but as one of those who had come from the hatch—a lashunta with hair down to her waist—ducked up the ramp, the ship’s cannons fired. A hovering man, perhaps a hesper, followed after them, entering the ship, which also powered up and took off.   
“Is there any particular reason you’ve sent me this, Paravicar?” Drayne’s comm unit dictated his words and sent the message. The Paravicar’s reply was prompt.   
_Those observed in the footage are Starfinders who have just returned from following these ships. Black Star Strikers, they’re called. We have very little information on them, but reportedly, their engines take their power from the Abyss._   
“Paravicar, you know as well as I that that is impossible. The Abyss is a power sink, not a source.”   
_What is theoretically possible and what is practically implemented often differ, Paralictor. I would like you to obtain information on these Black Stars in whatever way is most convenient. The observation of the Sixth Act Fleet can be assigned to someone else for now. You are already on Absalom Station, so it makes the most sense for you to accept this task instead._   
Drayne shuddered. _Gods know what they’ll do to Scarlett if they corner her. And she doesn’t even realize they’re following her. But I am subject to the Paravicar. I must do as he asks_.   
He unfolded the robe rolled up in his luggage, the uniform of a Signifier where armor was impractical or unacceptable. Beside it, he laid his mask, while he wriggled out of the street clothes he had been wearing and threw them into the waste sorting system. There would be no more blending in with the crowd. He was now a Hellknight acting as such. The reputation of the Seven Orders would get him farther than a disguise.   
“Emotion is weakness,” he reminded himself once more as he set the mask onto his face. The projections inside it were bright, now that he had become unaccustomed to them, and he blinked a few times before forcing his eyes to stay open.   
With the mask on his face, he couldn’t brush away the single tear that spilled beneath it.   
He would tell the Paravicar, if he asked, that it was the light. He had become adept at lying to his superiors. That was what set the Paralictors apart from the Signifiers.


	16. Assignment

“So what’s this special mission Mihaluín was talking about?”  
Jenovere swiped a folder from her datapad onto Lett’s. “You’ve seen the news about the Blue Augmented returning to the Station, right? Apparently, they were kidnapped, and their cybernetics rebuilt, by this Black Star organization. There’s almost nothing on them—heck, we call them Black Stars because that’s what their ships scan as; we don’t even know their name—but what we know is the opposite of good. Fourteenth Seeker Eos Irin, formerly of the weapons department, has been given her own temporary command specifically to investigate them. She asked for us specifically, something about needing the skills of a paladin or two.”  
“What do we know about them?”  
“Their ships are powered by Abyssal engines. The blue framing they use, the same material that’s on those cyborgs, is an abysium alloy called thelgaxite, and it liquefies when exposed to an electric current. And whoever they are, whatever they want, they have an uncomfortable interest in Golarion, and a beef with the Church of Sarenrae.”  
Lett frowned, flipping through the folder Jenovere had passed her. It was full of information, including the public Starfinder Society records for Venture-Commander Irin and her small department, a list of those who had gone missing only to turn up with thelgaxite augmentations, a data sheet reporting about the alloy’s properties, and more.  
She peered closely at the Venture-Commander’s picture. No wonder the name had seemed familiar; Irin was the Sarenite priest that had accompanied Adran on Lett’s oath-day, although her hair had been re-styled. The Dawnflower’s angelic sigil hung from a necklace at Irin’s throat, and her Starfinder badge on a longer one beneath it.   
The bell rung, startling them both, and Jenovere checked the status report.   
“Those bastards,” she said, then her eyes widened, realizing she’d sworn. “Well, Lett, want to see a Black Star up close?”  
Lett nodded, even though she had very little desire to fight a Black Star. From what she’d heard of the ships, they were nasty pieces of work; as dangerously armed as Vesk ships, but half the weight and twice the maneuverability. But three months had passed since she and Jenovere had taken their oaths side-by-side, and they had become sisters in the sword and the ship. Lett knew enough of piloting to limp back to Mercy if Jenovere fell unconscious, though she was certainly no ace. Of course, as the two of them had grown in their faith and in their powers, they had kept such precautions from being necessary.   
The calculated rush for their fighters had become routine by now; six of them blasted into the void, and soon, came into contact with the ill-reputed Black Star Strikers. There were only two at first, but more of them seemed to fold out of the air. Certainly they weren’t exiting the Drift; their motion was too smooth for that. They had simply been hiding amongst the darkness of the void. Their thrusters swirled about the central cabins like deadly flowers.   
Of course, their Brightswords were more than equipped for the task. As stealthy and swift as the Black Stars were, they lacked defense, and when a hit was landed, the ships crumpled quickly.  
Twelve Black Stars had fallen when the last stared them down. Realizing that he intended to ram them, Jenovere pulled the ship up swiftly, startling Lett. The Black Star kept pace with them, making contact with their underside, trying to gouge them with the spines on his thruster pods while he was out of Lett’s firing range.  
“I can’t hit him,” she muttered, frustrated. “Can you maybe, like, spin a little?”  
“He’s just going to move with me. Damned coward.” Jenovere threw the thrusters into reverse, testing whether the scorch while they spinned under would drive him off. “Brace yourself. I’m going to tell Maurin to shoot him, but we may take some friendly fire.” She switched her comms over and forwarded the request, and one of the other ships chased after them, practically riding in their thrust, firing at their adversary.  
The Black Star broke off then, dropping to a complete halt. Maurin’s ship stopped only a few yards short of it, and he unloaded everything his guns had into it. The ship, damaged, tumbled away, and Lett breathed a sigh of relief.  
Back on _Mercy_ , the fighter crews all convened with Mihaluín and Pintor. The Black Star threat was far from over in the skies, but losing Lett and Jenovere to the Starfinder Society meant losing a capable fighter. Jenovere agreed to stay with the fighters; she would be paired with an auxiliary gunner until the Fourth Act Fleet arrived. That left Lett to the Starfinders; with her personal belongings in a null-space chamber, the next morning, she strode, acting more confident than she really felt, up to the front gate of the Lorespire Complex.


	17. Bad Reputations

The very sight of the place was gut-twisting to her. _ I could have been here the whole time. I had an acceptance from the Starfinder Society. I chose a different path… and now here I am anyways. _ __   
Her staring was interrupted by Venture-Commander Irin, who pressed the starstone compass badge hanging around her neck to a sensor on the gate, and it swung open for Lett.   
“You’re here on time. Good. I was disappointed to hear that Knight-Paladin Jenovere wouldn’t also be coming, but I’ll take what I can get.” She smiled brightly. “You can call me Eos.”   
“You can call me Lett.” The paladin held out her hand, and Eos shook it, with a surprisingly strong hand.   
“You’ll want to come up to my office, I’m sure. Rhot’s Venture Crew hasn’t returned yet, but their ETA is about an hour from now. I, unfortunately, have a public statement to make in about forty minutes, but feel free to chill in my office. I’ve got coffee, tea, and a few harder drinks if you’d prefer. The Eighth Seeker made some cake out of a weird fruit from somewhere beyond this system, too; I’ve got a few slices in my warming unit. My databank has all sorts of books and newsfeeds, plus I finished setting up the tagging system for my weapon collection, so it’s like a mini museum. I’m sure you’ll have something to do. I’m going to get changed in the meantime, and I’ll be back probably around the time Rhot’s crew is.”    
As she’d spoken, she had led Lett into the Lorespire itself, and up an elevator to one of the three floors just below those denoted Guidance Level. Now they strode down a hallway entirely plated in polished adamantine alloy. A name was chemically etched into a blue-framed silver plate hanging by each door, decorated with the Society’s Starstone compass logo. Lett was startled to see the name Asiriel Edamar on one that they passed; she wondered whether he was any relation to Mihaluín. It certainly sounded like an elvish name.   
Finally, they paused by an office near the end of the spiraling hallway, and Eos scanned her badge once more, pressing it against the etching on her nameplate. The door fragmented into sections that left a compass-shaped aperture, which swiftly slid back to leave the rectangular portal open.   
Packing boxes still lined parts of the floor, and the morning sun gleamed in through the windows. The collection of weaponry lining the non-windowed walls, however, had been completely unpacked; the rack to the right of Eos’ desk held a collection of scimitars, angel-wings, and other weapons favored by the Church of Sarenrae. The next rack over held a blade similar to the one embedded in the Swordlight Cathedral’s altar, to Lett’s surprise.   
“Nice collection,” Lett said honestly, and Eos smiled.   
“Thanks.” She pushed a button on the control panel embedded in her desk, and a section of wall with racks slid out, revealing a small closet; Eos lifted a dark blue suit from it and slid that section shut, stepping into the one next to it as it opened, which was apparently a small bathroom.    
“Do you live here?”   
“No, I have an apartment in Congregation,” she said, naming the neighborhood that housed the temples of most other gods on the Station. “But the Seekers’ offices are designed to have full amenities, in case you or someone in your department needs to. So, uh, that’s where the bathroom is.” She tapped a pad on the wall, and the panel slid back into place, clicking behind her. She emerged a few minutes later dressed in the suit, tucking her badge beneath her shirt, and reaffixing the emblem of Sarenrae to her lapel. “I’m off to the Theatorium for our public address. The holoprojector is tuned to one of the newsfeeds that’ll cover it, if you’re interested.”   
She left, and Lett wandered around the office for a while, looking at the weapon collection. Thanks to the tagging system Eos had set up, Lett learned that the sword that had caught her eye was, like the one set into the altar, a replica of Heart’s Edge, and an attempt to be as faithful to the original construction as possible, using the same archaic forging methods.   
But of course, this one was never broken and reformed. Lett traced her fingers across the Chelaxian inscription on the blade. She knew very little of the language; the church’s rituals had been spoken in Common since the Gap; but the words  _ light  _ and  _ valor  _ were common enough in the artwork she’d seen that she could recognize them. Those were two words that didn’t come up often among Hellknights.   
Any collection of bladed weapons, of course, was bound to have several sacramentals of the Church of Iomedae. She found another, the adamantine hilt of a plasma sword with a crossguard that appeared to curve down over the user’s hands and hook upwards at the end. It seemed impractical at first, until she hesitantly turned it on, and realized that the plasma arced down in the shape of wings over it, and formed the shape of a lion’s head on the otherwise plain pommel.   
“Eos doesn’t normally like people switching those on,” said a voice behind her, startling her. She turned the plasma blade off quickly, lowering it and turning to face the speaker. He stood in the doorway, a half-elf with the same swarthy coloration as Mihaluín, though his hair hadn’t gone white. His dark eyes showed only a slight glimmer of gold, but Lett guessed that this was Asiriel, and that he was indeed related to the ancient Knight-Paladin.   
“I assure you I know how to handle a sword,” Lett said, studying him, then setting the hilt carefully back on the pair of hooks that had held it, offered her hand. “I’m Knight-Paladin Scarlett Duma of the Knights of Golarion, and a regular in the Sixth Act Fleet.”   
The half-elf considered her hand before shaking. “Venture-Commander Asiriel Edamar,” he introduced himself. “Head of the Arms Division, and Second Seeker of the Starfinder Society. Eos was one of my Venture-Captains until about a week ago. She takes pride in her private collection, which I think is deserved. Have you seen the Harmony Blade?”   
“The what?”   
“The weapon of a solarian that outlived its master.” Asiriel took a glass case with a crystal gently from one of the other shelves, lifting the crystal from it. A flicker of light suddenly became visible around his head, bobbing and weaving like Lett’s mote did when it was visible. “We suspect the solarian’s soul was preserved in this crystal, making his or her weapon available to those who need it, but we haven’t yet been able to contact it.” He frowned, placing the crystal back in the box. “But enough about that. Eos said she had set her holoscreen to the Theatorium feed. She should be speaking soon.”   
Lett tapped a button on the control panel, and the holoscreen flickered up from between a couple of chairs. As the image came into view, Eos took the stage. The First Seeker, who had apparently just concluded her own speech, stood behind her in a snappy dark red cocktail dress, taking Eos’ winged staff as the Venture-Commander stepped up to the center of the Theatorium stage.   
“First, I would like to assure you that what I am about to say should be no cause for alarm.” She glanced over the crowd. “We have news from one of our venture crews, the Stormfalcon, who were dispatched to the Veskarium immediately following an expedition to the Diaspora. There, we found traces of Abyssal engravings and artifacts. We have both digital and solid evidence that this organization is dealing with demons and other figures of chaos and attempting arcane necromancy. As such, the Black Star department has requested the aid of the Knights of Golarion, and of the Church of Iomedae, as well as the church of Sarenrae, with which I have made no secret of my connections.” She nodded, signaling that her statement was finished, and reporters and drones crowded closer, putting forth their microphones, hoping she would answer their questions.   
“Are these blue-Augmented dangerous?”   
“The crew of the Stormfalcon has informed me, by a message sent ahead of their voyage home, that they are not. The blue-metal cyborgs and androids surrounding our Station have not received the compulsion that causes them to be dangerous.”   
“Is the crew here to make a statement?”   
“No, they have not reported in. They are most likely still Adrift.”   
“Why involve the Church of Iomedae?”   
This question came from a man with black hair split by two streaks of red, which matched his robe. A Signifier’s robe, Lett realized with a jolt. She couldn’t be sure if others did their hair the same way, and he wore a mask, but it could easily have been Drayne.   
“We feel that the Iomedaean navy is well-equipped to deal with such a threat.”   
The same man followed her response quickly with another question, leaving some reporters indignant. “Are the rumors about the Black Stars seeking Golarion true?”   
The audience hushed at that, eager to hear Eos’ response.   
“Given even what we knew before the expedition to the Diaspora, yes,” Eos said. “Venture Crew Stormfalcon’s mechanic was one of those taken, re-Augmented, and reprogrammed by the Black Stars, and they installed a module in her that grants her a database where numerous possible histories of the planet, and language programs for Golarian regional languages, can be found.”   
The press conference continued until the reporters ran out of reasonable questions to ask, and then the Theatorium’s nightly repertoire began, and Asiriel turned off the holoscreen, answering a knock on the door. Four people who Lett recognized as the Stormfalcon crew filed into the room, bantering, and stopped short upon seeing her sitting in one of the chairs. Seeing that there were only four, she stood, offering her place to the last through the door, a Vesk in carbon-steel armor. He was, apparently, a Sarenite like Eos, by the angel sigil outlined in yellow glow-lights on each of his shoulders.   
Once they had all settled in their chairs, one of them—apparently the mechanic to whom Eos had been referring, as her augmentations were made entirely of the bluish metal that framed the Black Stars—wondered, “So who are you, exactly?”   
“Knight-Paladin Scarlett Duma of the Sixth Act Fleet,” Lett said, simplifying the full title she’d given Asiriel, as the lashunta’s tired eyes said she didn’t really care, and was only asking to kill time. “Your temporary partner, it seems. I notice you didn’t introduce yourself.”   
The lashunta made a face. “Senya. If I ever had a last name, I lost it with the rest of my memories.”   
The name startled Lett; it was one that Adran had thrown around, during his days of running around with Augmented activists. _ Can’t afford to build her own arm out of anything but junk, but damned if she doesn’t do a better job of it than most professional cybernetics techs. And she’s a feisty one too. It’s a  wonder she wasn’t taken in before. _ The words played back in Lett’s head, one of her clearer memories, and the last few replayed. Taken in before. She’d been in prison before Adran had. She was a criminal, or she had been.   
“Senya. The face of Level 42,” Lett identified quietly. The lashunta’s antennae perked, then curled, an expression of surprise.   
“I’m surprised you’ve ever heard of me, Knight-Paladin.” Senya’s tongue rolled over the title mockingly. “Isn’t your cathedral on Level 1?”   
Lett wanted to reply, but suspected that Senya’s clapbacks would only get worse from here, so she kept her mouth shut until the Vesk introduced himself, in what might have been an attempt to break the awkward silence.   
“I’m Rhot,” he said with an unsettlingly sharp-toothed, but friendly, smile, offering his enormous paw, which Lett shook with both hands. “I’ve been appointed Venture-Captain of the Stormfalcon crew.”   
“And I’m Luck!” The other lashunta didn’t stand from her chair but waved enthusiastically. Lett nervously counted five weapons on her person, in addition to the massive artillery laser she had set next to herself. “Or you can call me Luck, anyways. My real name is a pain. My parents call me Luck, because I’m very lucky.”   
Lett glanced at the ysoki, who appeared to be falling asleep in his chair. Senya nudged him, and he stirred. “Oh! Uh, I’m Sparky.” He lifted one of his little paws, which didn’t fit all the way around Lett’s hand to shake it.   
The door opened again, and Eos joined them, looking like she wanted a drink, but still had an hour left on the clock. “There’s a rather… insistent guest waiting in the hallway. Are you all alright with talking more business just about now?”   
Senya frowned, but Rhot nodded. “Better to get it all over with now, right?”   
Eos stepped back into the hallway, waving a hand, and was followed in by the guest in question. He didn’t make it far into the room, though, before he stopped short, head turned towards Lett.   
“My apologies, Fourteenth Seeker,” he said evenly, lowering his mask. “I didn’t realize you were already working in concert with the organization that has been hiding my failed Armiger from me for two years now.”   
Lett met Drayne’s eyes, and their gazes sparked like steel on stone. “It’s good to see you too, Signifier. I think you’ll find Knight-Paladin more fitting than Armiger.”   
“You’re supposed to be dead.”   
“Because somebody left me on a desolate asteroid with a bone devil?”   
“Is an apology what you want?” Drayne growled, clenching a gauntleted fist. “Perhaps if you hadn’t broken my orders, I would have taken you  _ off  _ of that desolate asteroid before the portal was all the way open.”   
“Kaston, please,” Eos said, placing an arm out as if she would have the force to stop him if he swung at Lett. “Scarlett has found her place elsewhere.” She looked meaningfully at Asiriel and the Stormfalcon crew, and Asiriel hit the door button, waving the rest of them out into the hall.   
“And you knew, too,” Drayne said, rounding on Eos though his voice was dangerously calm.   
“Perhaps I’d have mentioned it if I had met the Knight-Paladin any sooner than this morning.” Eos’ voice and demeanor were both calm, unthreatened by Drayne’s show of dominance. “But as she is not a regular acquaintance of mine, I had no idea she was a contact of yours. Both of you have been sent by your respective orders to assist in the investigation of the order we refer to as the Black Stars, so that is what you will do. The Stormfalcon Venture Crew has provided me with a set of coordinates they found, which we’re all going to investigate.  _ Both  _ of you, along with myself, Second Seeker Edamar, and the Stormfalcon crew itself. We’ll all be guests on their ship, so I expect the best behavior out of you both.”   
Drayne glared daggers at Lett. “As long as she keeps the territorial laws, I’ll save reporting her to the Lictor until the mission is finished.”   
“Apparently you aren’t as much of a scholar as you’ve always claimed, Signifier. Don’t you know what a paladin’s oath requires?” She smirked, then added, “ __ Kaston ?”   
“One more thing,” Eos said, ignoring the sparks still flying between them and lifting a pair of guns from the wall. “You’ll be bunking together, so play nice.”


	18. The Rift Between Us

If what she had been subjected to on Citadel Demain was Hell on the Material Plane, Lett wasn’t sure how to describe flying on the Stormfalcon. Maybe the Maelstrom.

It wasn’t that it was a bad ship. It was a Phoenix, for crying out loud, and Sparky, the scruffy ysoki, was a more-than-competent pilot. But she could barely go half a step without tripping a newborn blue skittermander, or having to dodge a flying R2E spoon, or finding the younger lashunta, Luck, trying to peel her sword off her belt. A lecture about how the sword was a holy symbol of Iomedae usually resulted in the eager lashunta showing off her own holy doshko, which, with eight people and a skittermander packed into the same space, was nerve-wracking.

Mostly, though, what made Lett miserable was Drayne. It was as though he waited until she’d had enough, then put forth his best effort to invade her space. It was worse than Armiger training—then, it was just following orders, wallowing in self-hatred, avoiding the scourge. This was something different. There was no time away from him, here; nowhere she could go that he couldn’t be. She wasn’t beholden to him, which meant that instead of his subordinate, she was his rival. She had to put in the effort to compete with him, or he would resort to that gloating demeanor she hated so much, without ever speaking a word about it. And of course, he’d already won some sort of small victory; the Venture-Captain had accepted his offer for a set of Scourgeknight’s armor. From the looks Drayne gave Lett, he was well aware she’d never been given a set; he was gauging her reaction, and she had to fight to keep her face neutral.

And for another two days, that stew continued to boil, until the Stormfalcon finally reached its coordinates. A capsule the size of the ship itself sat there, a massive lever on its side.

“What is it?” Eos wondered. “That isn’t Abyssal, or Beastspeech.”

Lett shoved past them all, peering through the window, and much to her surprise, she recognized the etchings along the thing’s side.

“High Azlanti,” she said, grasping at the words she’d learned at the University. “A world to… hide a world is thus… revealed. That’s what it says.”

“To hide a world.” Senya made a face. “I’ve got a bad feeling this is about fucking Golarion. What do you think that lever does?”

“It’s generating a Drift signal,” Eos realized. “The capsule, I mean. Maybe it’s some kind of beacon. Maybe the lever is a switch?”

“Not really a Drift signal,” Sparky chimed in from the pilot’s seat, where he steered the ship carefully in orbit of the thing. “Our engines can’t resonate with it. Some other kind of pocket dimension. Like… ah, like those bags that are bigger on the inside.”

Eos nodded, understanding that phrasing. “Like it was generated through technology, though. It didn’t exist, and whatever put it there wasn’t magic.”

Lett shrugged. “So what are our options? Flip the switch?”

“I like the idea of flipping it,” Luck agreed.

“Absolutely not.” Drayne’s voice broke through from the back of the bridge. “We have no idea what kind of reaction it’ll have…”

But Sparky had already engaged the thrusters to nudge the ship into position, knocking the lever the opposite direction with an unsettling grinding noise. As it flipped, there was a very audible click, and then a very tangible sensation of weightlessness as whatever had been hidden in the fold in space reappeared, drawing the ship towards it. The thrusters gashed across the capsule as it and the ship tumbled to ground on what was apparently a large asteroid.

Beneath them, very clearly visible through the tempered voidglass floor common to the Phoenix brand, was a colossal, nastily spiked scorpionlike creature, the color of dried blood. Eos’ face went white at the sight of it.

“Pull up,” she ordered Sparky, and the ysoki pulled levers and pushed buttons, finally throwing his front paws up helplessly.

“I can’t,” he said. “Sonofabitch capsule got our engine system, apparently.” He peered through the floor. “The hell  _ is _ that thing?”

“Not Hell, that’s for sure,” Drayne muttered under his breath in Chelaxian. Lett was startled that she recognized the words.

“Whatever it is, I can take it.” Senya pounded her cybernetic fist against the palm of her natural hand, and it expanded from normal size to slightly larger than one of Rhot’s gauntleted claws. “I mean… not alone, of course.”

“Could you maybe fix the engine?”

Senya tapped the metal side of her face. “My integrated AI has been running diagnostics. It’s not something I can fix before we land down there.”

“Then I’m with your original plan.” Lett unclasped her sword from her belt. “Let’s fight it.”

“Do you have any idea what that thing is?” Eos yelped.

“Nope,” Senya said. “But there are eight of us and one of it. Sparky, engage the auto landing gear. That, at least, should function long enough to stop us from becoming a Starfinder pancake.”

The ysoki nodded, flipping a couple of switches to the on position, and the rest of them off. With the lurch usually characteristic of a poorly built elevator, the secondary thrusters switched on, slowing their descent.

“Fighting it does seem to be our best option,” Drayne allowed. He had assembled his scourge to its ready position, though he didn’t activate the plasma elements yet. Lett pointedly looked away from him, focusing instead on Luck, who was pretending her doshko was a guitar, singing, “Fight, fight, fight, with all your might!” as the skittermander dangled from one of the tails of her armored coat.

The scorpion-beast chased toward their landing site as they made impact, and the very moment the landing gate was down, Lett, Luck, Rhot, and Drayne all charged in, trying to make the first strike. Eos, Asiriel, Sparky, and Senya remained in back, most armed with guns, and Eos with a gold-winged staff that was certainly older than she was.

She murmured something in a language Lett didn’t recognize, though the rush of positive energy that flowed from the staff was more familiar. It surrounded the scorpion, slowing its movement, but it still made jabs and bites and slashes too quickly to defend. Its stinger aimed for the young lashunta, and Lett, seeing that she wore only light armor, jumped in front of it.  _ Inheritor protect her, _ she prayed silently.  _ I doubt she’s ever seen a battle like this before. _

It punctured through even her armor, delivering a great dose of poison, which was only amplified by the fact that her body was mostly cybernetic, not built to filter it. Nauseated, she barely managed to keep from throwing up.

“Careful, champ,” she said, standing, still reeling from the poison. “Hit it all you want, but don’t let that thing hit you.”

“I can handle myself.” Luck swung at the tail as it came for another strike, which glanced off Lett’s phase shield. There was no indignation in her voice, just naïve confidence. She and Lett each took several swings at the thing’s tail, and while Luck’s strikes were less frequent, they were heavier. They severed the tail in short moments that felt like hours, and tried to find a way through the armor on its sides. On the beast’s head end, Drayne had been grasped in one of its claws, but as its tail was gone, it found itself unable to sting him. With a shout of effort that seemed to draw on power beyond just his voice, the Hellknight freed himself and flung his scourge into its eyes. Moments later, one of Senya’s cryo-shots struck through where Drayne had just hit.

The ground beneath them began to shift, and they all scrambled back, Lett and Rhot nearly losing greaves, as the sand melted and re-hardened into glass. In the distance, the Pact Worlds’ sun, still noticeably brighter than the other stars, peeked over the horizon. With it, a figure appeared on the far side of the scorpion-beast; golden from her hair to her toes to her wings, wearing a formal blue gown that did not, in the slightest, match her demeanor.

“Nice!” she called, then tripped over one high heel, caught her balance by flaring her wings out to either side, scowled, ripped off both shoes, and ran the rest of the way to join them, the sand turning to glass in her wake. Eos had dropped to a knee, and Asiriel stood with a fist to his chest in a salute, but almost everyone else stood, exchanging confused glances. After a moment, the woman’s identity clicked, and Lett also knelt, though she didn’t bow over as Eos had.

“Sorry you had to see that,” the woman said, with a broad grin. “The Heaven Squad are always telling me I should do these things with more pomp and circumstance, but I barely get the chance when I make an entrance like that.” She laughed, and held out a hand to no one in particular, as if to shake. “Hello. I’m Sarenrae.”

Rhot blinked a few times, then bowed deeply. Senya imitated Asiriel’s salute, with her robot fist. Luck gave a theatrical bow. Drayne removed his helmet, giving an acknowledging nod, nothing more. Sparky clapped his paws together and wondered, “Namaste?” in a voice that suggested he had started the day with the last few traces of last night’s drink, and was only now starting to feel the hangover.

Sarenrae’s face furled into a slight frown. “No,” she decided. “I don’t like formalities. And why are you kneeling, Knight-Paladin? I’m not even your patron. Quit with the bowing, all of you. We have things to discuss.”

Lett climbed to her feet uncertainly, as did Eos behind her. It felt as through her wounds were sealing, and the poison vanished from them. “Was that a rhetorical question, or did you want an answer, Lady Dawnflower?”

Sarenrae shrugged. “If you have an answer, I wouldn’t mind hearing it. And please. I said no formalities.”

“Because it’s not every day I see a god manifest,” Lett answered. “In fact, this is the first day it’s happened out of the nearly ten thousand that I’ve existed. I assumed I should show proper respect.”

Sarenrae gave an amused smile. “I’ve got an idea to help all of you lighten up.” She leaned on the severed tail of the scorpion-beast, which hadn’t been encased in the glass. A bright glow surrounded it as it came into contact with her skin, and the dried-blood color, which was, apparently, actual dried blood, burned away, leaving obsidian-colored chitin behind. The smell of scorching blood and burning hair faded quickly into one resembling Castrovellian shellfish. “I promise, all the poison is gone. We’re going to have a little barbecue, and I can explain to you how you maybe definitely saved a large chunk of the universe.” At least six of them opened their mouths, and Sarenrae held up a hand. “Questions later. Right now, you all need to relax. There are no more nasty beasties on this little asteroid, don’t worry. You go get cleaned up, all of you. Take showers. Don’t dillydally. And I don’t want to see any armor or weapons when you come back.”

Lett opened her mouth to protest, and Sarenrae’s eyes met hers with a sparklike flash, reminding Lett that this was, indeed, a goddess.

“Even you, Knight-Paladin. If Iomedae throws a tantrum about you going unarmed or something, I’ll do the explaining.”

_ It isn’t about the sword. _ Lett bit back the words, glancing nervously at the crew. She hadn’t packed much in the way of clothes; as a Knight, she’d grown used to sleeping in at least her gambeson. “I, uh, didn’t really pack any street clothes.”

“You can borrow my pajamas,” Luck volunteered. “Or you can wear my shirt and shorts, and I’ll wear my pajamas, if you don’t want to wear pajamas.”

Sarenrae nodded, and Lett winced, but nodded. She waited until last, until all the others had cycled through and taken showers. Luck’s pajamas were printed in blue and purple nebulae, not an embarrassing pattern, but the shirt was sleeveless, and the pants were capri-length. She stumbled on Senya and Eos having a discussion about the scorpion’s poison, which it had apparently spit at Senya.

“Honestly. It’s fine. If anything, it affects less of me, because I’ve got a robot arm.”

Eos sighed. “You know I’ll be checking that with the Venture-Commander of Cybernetics when we get back.”

“Just let her look at you,” Lett said, meeting Senya’s eyes. “You should know that having cybernetic parts just means the poison was more concentrated in the rest of your body. It could have done more damage.”

Senya frowned. “And how do you know so much about cybernetics, Paladin? I take it it’s not a required skill among the Knights. Or even an available one.”

“I learned plenty from Knight-Paladin Jenovere,” Lett said sharply, “who  _ is _ , in fact, a licensed cybernetics technician.”

“Why bother with it? Can’t you just heal yourself with your holy magic, or whatever?”

“There are some things beyond the extent of my healing.” Lett stepped into the bathroom, slamming the door on Senya before she could make another biting remark.

In the hallway, Eos and the bewildered Augmented sighed, heading outside.

The water flooded over Lett’s natural body and drained through her cybernetic limbs. As she rubbed the last soap suds out of her hair and brushed it out, she forced herself to breathe, to come to terms with the fact that she would have to tell the crew sooner or later anyways.

_ But what about Drayne? _

_ …No. I don’t need to worry about Drayne. If anything, when he sees what’s happened to me, he should feel guilty. _

She toweled off and got dressed, wearing no shoes, and trying to keep to the shadows as she rejoined the group. It didn’t work, of course. Drayne’s eyes snapped to her almost immediately, and then dropped to the floor, as though he was embarrassed. Conscious of the stares on her, Lett wanted to turn and reboard the ship, but Senya took her arm and dragged her to a small firepit they had assembled from a few spare UPBs and thruster fuel, setting her right next to Drayne and plopping a plate of something in her lap. She picked up a fork from the jar that had been set out and picked at it, feeling too caged to eat anything.

“It’s the thing’s tail, if you’re wondering,” Senya said around a mouthful of meat. “Tastes a bit like crab. Well, that’s what Rhot said, anyways. I’ve never tried crab.”

Lett pulled a sliver off the tail-steak and put it in her mouth, chewing absently. It was a rather fishy taste, but there was an unpleasant undertone to it.

While she was eating, perhaps Drayne presumed she wasn’t looking, because he shot her a furtive glance. Irritated, she set her fork down and snapped, “You don’t have to stare, Signifier.”

“I wasn’t…” He shook his head, as if trying to clear it of jumbled thoughts. “Is that all prosthetic?”

“Does it matter?”

He flinched. “Was that from… you know, your test?”

Lett scowled, ignored him, and picked up another piece of meat. Suddenly the aftertaste wasn’t so concerning.

“Scarlett…”

“Yes.” This time, she let the fork clatter out of her hand. “Yes. It was. In case you’re wondering, while  _ you _ left me for dead, a centuries-old elf I didn’t know pulled me out of the wreckage.”

“Scarlett, I…”

“I don’t want to hear it.” She stuffed the last bite of steak into her mouth, standing up, and paused when she found Sarenrae’s glare on her.

“I haven’t told you about the little beastie yet,” the Dawnflower chided. “And really, Knight-Paladin. Is this reaction appropriate for someone of your calling? Let him speak before you shut him down.” She turned her golden eyes to Drayne. “Well, child of Hell? What do you have to say to her?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, drawing out the words, maybe trying to get a reaction out of Lett. “I am. I had orders to return immediately, with or without you. I fully intended to turn the ship around and retrieve you. Its flight pattern was set. It wouldn’t let me go back.”

“So if you had had the choice, you wouldn’t have left me for dead?”

He stared sullenly at the crew of the Stormfalcon around them, then back at Lett. “No. I wouldn’t have. In fact, I had the choice. I made the wrong one, and too soon.” He stared at his feet, which were clad in a pair of self-tying matte black combat boots.

“Now that that’s out,” Sarenrae said, waving a hand as if trying to brush away the tension that stretched between Lett and Drayne, “The suspense must be killing you. This thing,” and she pointed at the slice of tail on her plate, “is one of the Spawn of Rovagug.”

Eos choked on her meat, spitting the piece that was in her mouth into the dirt. Asiriel, too, set down his fork nervously.

“Now, now. Don’t overreact. If it wasn’t safe for you to eat, I wouldn’t have told you to eat it.” Sarenrae waved a hand, and the piece floated off the ground, cleansed of the dirt, and settled back on Eos’ plate. “For the rest of you, who apparently haven’t heard of the Spawn, they are—or, in the case of most, were—a bunch of huge, nasty monsters. Thirteen in total, getting nastier as they go. This thing was number two. Thirteen was called Tarrasque, and it literally destroyed civilizations before it was sealed in a cave.” Lett was startled to see that Sarenrae’s eyes had grown dark, but they lightened with her next sentence. “Underground, it was. On Golarion. Presumably  _ with _ Rovagug himself, which, in retrospect, was a terrible idea.” She glanced around at them. “But you’ve all defeated one of the Spawn, and among just the eight of you, which makes you, like, legendary heroes, or something. Which brings me to my next point.”

Her eyes fixated on Asiriel, and he shifted uncomfortably.

“Show them the sword you wear,” she commanded, and with a defeated sigh, he unbelted the scimitar that always hung at his waist, unwinding a wrapping from its hilt. Beneath, it was adamantine worked in gold and set with a cluster of star sapphires, forming the shape of a sunflower.

“A sign of my family’s oath to serve you,” Asiriel said, by way of explanation. “An oath that shouldn’t extend to me. I never spoke its words. I never even acknowledged it. Not until now.”

_ An oath to serve Sarenrae? _ Lett dared not ask, but she filed it away to ask Mihaluín later.

“The fact of the matter is,” the goddess said, “you’re the heir of the line of Edamar. You may not be a fullblooded elf, but that line ties you back to Castrovel, and it ties you back to me. If you do one thing for me, just one, I’ll find someone else when I need mortal help in the future. It’s a terribly rare occasion, Asiriel. You know this.”

“What is that one thing?” he asked warily.

“As a god, I can’t interfere with the Starstone or its workings.  _ Especially  _ not attempts to reach it. But this…” She nudged the scorpion-tail steak still on her plate. “This is the first stirring of something larger. The accounts of Golarion’s history that survived the Gap agree on very little, but they agree that I was among Rovagug’s greatest adversaries.”

“Does this have to do with why Golarion was lost in the first place?” Lett wondered, earning a regretful stare from the goddess.

“I cannot distribute information about how or why Golarion was hidden. None of the gods can.” She smirked at Kaston. “Not even Asmodeus, much to his irritation. But that is beside my point. In a time of trouble, champions are needed. Eos is my champion. That isn’t the favor I ask of you, Asiriel. The favor is that you watch her back while she attempts the Test, even if that means taking it with her.”

Asiriel’s eyes were dark and stormy, but he nodded. “And then you take back Shadowbreaker, and with it, my obligation to serve you.”

“You’re welcome to keep the sword.”

“I don’t want it.” Asiriel re-wrapped the hilt and slid it back into its scabbard.

“Then you  _ will _ keep the sword,” Sarenrae decided. The faint glow around her had intensified. “Or, when this is all said and done, you will spend some time in a cloister in the Burning Archipelago until you are ready to change your mind.”

“Kinky,” Senya muttered under her breath. Lett barely heard it, but it drew Sarenrae’s attention. A flare of light surrounded Senya, and the cyborg winced, speaking through gritted teeth, even more quietly than before. “Heal me, then smite me. Can’t decide how she wants me.”

Sarenrae sighed, exasperated, and the glow around Senya and herself both faded. “Look, I didn’t come here to coerce any of the rest of you into attempting the Test, but it’d be appreciated. Many of those whose power was drawn from Golarion are… losing strength, naturally, in its absence. Some have vanished entirely. No one has seen head nor tail of Cayden Cailean or Norgorber in three centuries, though in Norgorber’s case, that’s not exactly a surprise.” She frowned. “In fact, I’m not sure any of you know who either of them is. But the only responsive god who derives her powers from the Starstone is Iomedae, now. She could use company.  _ We _ could use company, if we must fight Rovagug. People that know the world as it is now. Not gonna lie, I’m a little out of date. If you ever find yourselves out of things to do… there will be more Spawn to kill.” She shrugged. “And I’ve said what I came here to say. Enjoy your barbecue.” With a literally glowing smile, she dissolved into a fountain of light, as did her high heels, where she’d set them.


	19. Unlikely Heroes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas all! As a gift to you I'm posting two longer chapters this week. Thanks for your support, and stay safe celebrating your holidays!

“Not really a fan of heroics,” Senya said. “The Test of the Starstone? Seems more your thing, Paladin.”

Lett took a deep breath, trying to process all the new information. Sarenrae had claimed not to be able to speak about Golarion’s disappearance, but she had told them valuable information nonetheless. “Not really. The Test of the Starstone is a suicide mission. No one’s passed it  _ since _ Iomedae, of which her entire church is well aware. It’s been called the Last Pilgrimage. High priests, and, I suppose, the clerics and paladins of old, would attempt it at the end of their lives if no battle was available, hoping for an honorable death.”

Senya made a face, muttering something about “fuckin’ religious fanatics” under her breath, and silence reigned for a long while. Drayne excused himself, and most of the others trickled away, and for once, Lett decided to stay, waiting until everyone had gone. The fire had burned low by the time she glanced up to find that only Senya remained. The cyborg, apparently also just realizing they were alone, glanced at Lett’s cybernetics. The yellowish eye set into her mechanical faceplate moved over them slowly, as though scanning.

“You don’t have to hide those, you know,” Senya said at last.

Lett’s face flushed nearly as red as her hair, and she broke eye contact with the lashunta. “It’s a personal choice. If people don’t know about my handicap, they don’t judge me for it.”

Senya uncrossed her arms. “That’s what’s wrong with these people. They tell you it’s a handicap.” She raised both hands, clenching them into fists, the mechanical first. “Last I checked, this one hits harder than this one.”

Lett smiled, forcing back the tears that had been brimming, which turned into a choked laugh.

“If you want them to look pretty, I can help,” Senya offered, after a few more moments of silence.

Lett shook her head. “I’d rather have them work hard and swing fast. Besides, when will there be time to tinker with them?”

Senya laughed. “Drift travel takes a while, my friend. There’ll be time. Let me know if you want them adjusted, even.”

The sound of footsteps told them that Drayne had joined them, carrying his helmet and a polishing cloth. He was back in his skinsuit, ever ready as Hellknights were expected to be. He sat on the ground next to them, polishing silently, for a while, and Lett noticed something pinned to his chest, alongside his markings of rank. She had been warming to him for the past couple of hours, but those feelings froze solid once again at the sight of the thing.

“You wear the Mark of the Unswerving,” she commented, and he shifted, realizing she was talking to him. He continued polishing, though, as he spoke.

“They don’t teach that to Armigers.”

“No. I learned it from my University advisor. He was a Paralictor of the Order of the Rack. He killed his father in favor of the law. Who did you kill, Drayne?”

His silvery eyes were dark and stormy. He kept his silence for a few moments, and when he spoke, it was to dodge the question. “I didn’t raise a hand. Lictor Xaevir insisted on giving me the Mark anyways.”

“Typical. I shouldn’t be surprised. Since you’re apparently in the habit of leaving your subordinates for dead.”

“You assume that it’s a habit because it happened once. How scientific of you.”

“If you have the Mark, clearly it happened at least twice.”

Drayne turned his head to look at her. “It happened  _ once _ and only once, Knight-Paladin.”

Lett’s eyes widened faintly, realizing suddenly that he’d been awarded that Mark for leaving her behind.

“Now you understand.” He pushed himself off the ground, lifting his helmet with one hand so it didn’t set in the dirt. “I can see it in your eyes.”

He disappeared into the ship, then rejoined them minus the helmet, warming his hands over the waning fire, and finally said, “Look… about what I said earlier. I really am sorry. I’m embarrassed at my response to learning about your, ah, augmentations. I was just… surprised, that’s all. You’re very good at using them, and you fight so much better than you ever did as my Armiger.”

Senya snorted. “When your sword arm is wired with synaptic accelerators, that shouldn’t come as a surprise.”

“I don’t have—” Lett began, then trailed off, realizing she’d never really taken a look at what Jenovere had put in her arm. “Look, it’s not the arm. That doesn’t change anything. Alright, Signifier, you’ve apologized for leaving me for dead. Anything else crossing your mind that you ought to apologize for?”

He frowned for a moment, then his eyebrows raised. “Oh. You mean… Yes. That. Well.” He stared at Senya, his eyes burning through her. “Not with her here. Please. That’s between just the two of us.”

Senya pushed herself to her feet, snorting. “Alright, lovebirds, I’ll leave you alone.”

“Well. It’s just the two of us now.” Lett met Drayne’s eyes with a hard stare.

“I’m sorry for that night.”

“Knight-Paladin Mihaluín says an apology is rarely sincere before the event is recounted. What about that night, Signifier?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t ask for your consent. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you what I was planning.” He took a deep breath, gazing straight into her eyes. “I’m sorry I raped you, Scarlett. With all my heart and soul. I know it hurts, that it wounds you deep. I don’t know why I did it. Maybe I was trying to be tough. Maybe I was taken away by you… by those eyes. Maybe I just wanted someone else to feel the same emptiness that’s haunted me ever since…” He trailed off. “No, I don’t dare blame it on my past. It was my choice. Those who commanded my past hold no sway over my present or future.”

Lett scoured his eyes, then the rest of his face, trying to find the signs of a lie, wanting more than anything to have an excuse to hate him, but all she found was guilt.

_ Do you think these things make you undeserving of the Inheritor’s mercy?  _ Mihaluín’s voice echoed in her head.

_ Of course they do. _

_ Good. That was the easy question. Do you think they put you beyond forgiveness? _

“I forgive you.” Lett forced the words out with some difficulty, but once they were out, she found them to be true.

Drayne breathed deeply, exhaling as what might have been a sigh of relief. “Also,” he said, tapping the rank markings on his chest, “in case you didn’t notice…”

“Oh, I did.” Lett stood. “I’ve known since Fevuro sent a response to Mihaluín’s inquiry, over a year ago. I wasn’t going to acknowledge that you’d been raised to Paralictor until you could act like an adult. Congratulations. Do I call you  _ sir _ now?”

He frowned. “You can call me Kaston, for now. I don’t think we need to be formal here.”

There was still one strand of the tension left between them. Finally, Lett reached out and plucked it.

“Xaevir knows I’m alive.”

“He does. I told him. I told him, and I regretted it almost immediately.”

After a few long minutes of silence, Lett said, “Then I suppose I’ll have to go back. To formally hand in my resignation.”

Kaston inhaled sharply, as though he wanted to say something, then thought better of it, and then said it anyways. “Scarlett… you know there will be a monitored reckoning.”

“Fifty lashes. I know.”

“Aren’t you afraid?”

“More than anything, I’m afraid that doing the right thing will alienate me from the oath I swore myself to, that binds me to Iomedae. That oath comes first now. But… I’m evading judgment. I ought to go back, to accept my punishment. That  _ is  _ the right thing to do, right?”

When Kaston finally spoke, his voice wavered with uncertainty. “I can’t speak for Iomedae. I have no idea what she prioritizes. But I can tell you that the longer you run from Xaevir, the harder he will hunt for you.”

“Tell him that I am coming back. That I intend to turn myself in of my own doing. That he should send the Citadel’s current location through you, and that I will return before the tenth of Sarenith. I need time to talk to the Knights of Golarion, to work things out, but I’m sure Mihaluín will understand.”

“Scarlett…” Kaston began, then shook his head. “There’s a very real possibility that Xaevir will impose all fifty lashes anyways. Maybe more.”

“I know.”

“And that will most likely kill you.”

A beat. “I know.”

“Then why?”

“Because it is a choice between evading the law to preserve my life and submitting to it as my oath asks of me. My oath binds me beyond my life.”

Kaston stared at her, deep in thought. He braced his fingers over the sensors on his skinsuit’s front, likely so that whatever he was about to say wouldn’t reach the ears of the Paravicar. “If he refuses to cut your punishment to twenty-five, I will not pass on the location of the Citadel. I don’t want you to die.”

The admission shook Lett. “You… don’t?”

“Of course not. It would be a waste of your talent, your mind, and your beautiful soul.”

“Not my pretty face?”

Kaston’s lips turned up at the corners, and Lett realized that this was the first time she’d seen him smile. “That too, though it’s secondary.”

Lett took a deep breath, then another, enjoying the silence, and Kaston didn’t break it. Finally she stood up to leave, and tossing one more glance towards the Hellknight, said, “I think Rhot’s spare bed is big enough for two to sleep. Just sleep, mind you. No funny business.”

Kaston’s smile returned. “None at all. I’ll put out the fire, then come in.”


	20. Admission

Kaston took his leave soon after they returned to Absalom Station, leaving Lett with only the time until he returned to spend alone. She wanted to make contact with a few people, but one was at the top of her list.

Down to Level 2 she rode, then walked her way to the University’s admin tower. She had visited the cathedral first, of course, and was still dressed in her ceremonial armor; a few students stepped out of her way as she passed, although per the University’s weapon policy, her sword was tied into its scabbard.

“Scarlett, is that you?”

She startled, turning towards the voice as she tried to place it. The speaker was, in fact, her Starstone Theology professor, an olive-skinned woman with far more influence than she had height.

“Professor Bonri,” Lett recognized. “It’s good to see you.” She meant it; despite her student-aged self’s dislike of the subject, Bonri had managed to make theology interesting.

“And the same for you.” Bonri smiled, appraising Lett. “Through many changes, it seems.”

Lett shrugged sheepishly. “I didn’t know what life would throw at me. I’m on better terms with my dad, of course.”

“Of course. I’d hope so. What brings you back?”

“I rarely get a chance to come back to the Station. The Sixth Act Fleet keeps me busy. I figured I’d drop in on Dr. Narl while I had the chance. He always liked face-to-face meetings better than digital ones.”

Bonri nodded. “He’s old fashioned, bless his soul. I think he’ll appreciate it. You should head on up, but if you have time, or you’re back in town, I’d love to talk more.”

“You’d love to hear whether my opinion that the  _ Acts _ are an allegory has changed,” Lett said with a knowing smile.

“You know me too well.”

They parted ways, and Lett walked the rest of the way to Dr. Narl’s office, opting then for the thirty flights of stairs rather than the elevators. She was winded by the time she made it all the way up; the ceremonial armor was heavier than her usual wear. Still, she paused at the water fountain, and had regained her composure by the time she knocked on the old dwarf’s door. It cracked open, revealing him, and the back of someone else’s head.

“I’m with a student now,” he said automatically, then, “Oh, Ms. Duma. Hello. Give us a few minutes. It shouldn’t take long.”

Lett nodded, and as the door closed, she saw Dr. Narl reaching for a heavy codex from one of his top shelves. She smiled, and waited, and sure enough, about five minutes later, the door opened, and the relieved-looking student exited.

“It’s finals week,” Lett realized, remembering the date. “Isn’t it?”

“That it is.”

“Then I’m sorry to bother you.”

“Anyone who is willing to visit me in person is worthy of my time, including former students.” Dr. Narl gestured at the chair. “Have a seat, if you wish. That armor looks heavy, and distinctly unlike Hellknight plate.”

“Yes.” Lett settled on the chair with a wistful smile. Like the one Dr. Narl sat on, it was formed of carved metal, and quite heavy. “That’s because it isn’t Hellknight plate. It belongs, as you might have guessed, to the Iomedaean astral force.”

Dr. Narl nodded approvingly. “Which fleet?”

“The Sixth Act.”

“The forming of  _ Heart’s Edge.  _ My favorite, but perhaps I am biased, as a dwarf. So, then, have you come to prove me wrong?”

Perhaps the way she inhaled told him that wasn’t it, because a look of dread grew in his eyes.

“No.” She forced herself to meet his gaze. “I came to see you because… well, the Hellknights left me behind, so when I survived, I left them behind for the Sixth Act Fleet. But I never did it formally, and they don’t take kindly to that. I’ve been notified that they know where I am. That I will face a monitored reckoning when I return to them, whether or not I do so willingly.”

“You came to say goodbye.”

Lett closed her eyes, hoping he wouldn’t see the tears that sprung up there, and rested her elbows on his desk. “Regardless, all they will get is my body,” she said, when she could manage to keep her tone even. “We were both wrong. My heart, mind, and soul don’t belong to the Hellknights, or to me. They belong to Iomedae. If her will is to save my body, then this doesn’t need to be goodbye. But if my body breaks, I want you to know that I am no servant of Hell.”

“Are you still an Armiger?”

Lett shook her head. “Paralictor Drayne informed me personally that I’ve been named Scourgeknight.”

“Off the anvil and into the fire,” Dr. Narl said ominously. “I pray to Torag on your behalf, you know. Perhaps he is part of the reason you survived training.”

Lett opened her eyes, rubbing at them with the smooth sides of her gauntlets, though it did nothing to clear the tears. Dr. Narl offered her a tissue, which she took.

“I’m sure his help is appreciated,” Lett said. “I mess up often enough that I imagine Iomedae regrets accepting my oath.”

“Many a theology professor would tell you that a god can’t feel regret.”

“Maybe not a god like Shelyn, who was born into it.” Lett wiped at her eyes with the tissue. “But Iomedae was human once. She had human emotions. She made human mistakes.”

“Dangerous territory indeed, for one who claims to follow her.” Dr. Narl’s hands folded. “Does her church not teach of her perfection?”

Lett nodded. “Of course. They cite the Acts. But no human is perfect. What did Iomedae do as a mortal when she wasn’t performing miracles?” She took a breath. “I don’t say this to tarnish her reputation. You’re the first person I’ve shared this with. I say it to convince myself that despite my mistakes, I am worth something.”

“A fair belief to hold.” Dr. Narl reached for one of the tall cabinets behind his desk. Before computers, he’d explained, they had been used to hold paper files, but now that everything was digital, he had no need to use them for that. Still, his grandfather had made them, as well as the chairs on which they sat; they were precious heirlooms, workings of metal and stone that held great value for the dwarves. So, Dr. Narl had converted the file cabinets into shelving units. He drew out a carved crystal decanter, and two cups apparently made from adamantine. Inside the decanter swirled an iridescent reddish-orange liquid. Balefire, as it was called; the same spiced whiskey that Clue favored. “I assure you, I break no rules by having this. Or, incidentally, by having the signal jammer that I am using to block the monitoring equipment in this room. In fact, the jammer is regulation for advisors, in case we need to discuss something off the record.”

“And having the two in conjunction?”

“No rule exists,” the dwarf said with a smirk, setting the tumblers next to the decanter and pouring one, which he offered to Lett. “Which, as any Paralictor worth his salt knows, means you get to make up the rule.” He lifted his glass. “A dwarf toasts three times. To luck. To the protection of the gods. And to surviving Hellknight brainwashing.”

Lett considered her glass carefully. “It’s rare that I drink,” she said, before wrapping her hand around it. “To oaths unbroken. To honorable death. To old friends.”

They each took a drink. In Dr. Narl’s case, that meant half the glass. In Lett’s, it was a small sip. Surprisingly, though the stuff smelled like kerosene, it tasted like spiced chai with an alcoholic burn.

The dwarf finished his drink, and politely inquired whether Lett wanted any more of hers before finishing it as well. Then he lifted one of the codices from his shelf, turning it to a marked page.

“It is an old rumor,” he said, “and unsubstantiated. But it is said that the Mark of the Unswerving, the physical object itself, provides a sort of defense against higher reckoning. I don’t know whether it is Order-specific, or whether it even works. But if it will help you… take it.” He opened his desk drawer and pulled out the medallion box. “I despise the act for which I was given this. I don’t want it.”

“I didn’t earn it.”

“The Mark is never earned. It is given at the discretion of a higher-ranking officer. I was a Paralictor, and you a Scourgeknight. By returning to the Citadel at all, you put the law before a life. It’s just that in this case, that life happens to be yours.”

Lett frowned at him jokingly. “Subverting the law in such a way? Why, Dr. Narl, Lictor Xaevir would have your head on a spike.”

“I wasn’t of the Scourge.” Dr. Narl pushed the box across his desk. “Even if you don’t use it, take it. It could save your life. Give me the peace of mind of knowing I did all I could.”

With a sigh, Lett picked up the box and opened it, tracing a hand across the medallion. Dr. Narl had been right—the thing felt faintly alive beneath her fingertips, as though magical. “I’ll bring it back if I survive.”

“Don’t bother. Keep it. I wouldn’t mind having you around for another conversation, though.”

Lett closed the box after a few minutes of quietly studying the medallion. “My Signifier was given the same Mark for leaving me behind,” she voiced.

“If he wears it with pride, he is a foul man.”

“He wears it with bitterness.”

“Then perhaps there is some good to be found in him.”

“I think you’re right,” Lett said. “I think he’s a lot better man than he wants anyone to think.”


	21. Last Hurrah

“You’re all going on a vacation.”

Eos’ words startled Lett, who had just rejoined the Stormfalcon Venture Crew in Eos’ office. “Venture-Commander, I don’t  _ take _ vacations.”

“Then the rest of the Venture Crew can take a vacation while you watch their backs. Paint it how you will. We defeated a Spawn of Rovagug—or, rather,  _ you _ did, as I happened to tell the media—and everyone suddenly, unsurprisingly, wants to talk to you. Wants your autograph, or embarrassing pictures of you leaving the bar, or your faces on their products. So, I arranged for a ship. The Stormfalcon will be staying here. You’ll take a Wanderer. It’s designed for four, but five will fit, if one’s a ysoki.” She looked meaningfully at Sparky. “No offense intended, of course.”

“None taken. Not from that, anyways. But what do you mean, the Stormfalcon is staying here? Why?”

“Because they know it by name and description. You won’t make it past the Armada before you’re blocked in by paparazzi.”

“And what about you and Asiriel?” Senya wondered.

“We’ve been gone from the Complex long enough. Besides, things are starting to turn up. The First Seeker called him this morning about apparently new records turning up in Guidance. People are starting to remember things they knew before the Gap. History is falling back into place. Only a little bit, but a little bit is a lot more than it was. The Society’s administration is going to be busy for a while.”

So it was that Lett joined the Stormfalcon Venture Crew aboard a brightly painted Ringworks Wanderer—a reliable ship, but not worth the money likely spent on it, due to the brand—and settled into the copilot’s seat as they flew, full thrust, for Castrovel. They arrived at their destination just as twilight fell over the beachfront Eos had put on their map, on a built-up, touristy edge of Asana. A sea breeze carried the scent of salt and flowers as a white-and-purple android greeted them, introducing herself as Ili, the owner and manager of the hotel where they would be staying.

Tired from the journey, they saw little of the hotel that night, although Sparky made use of the complementary bar, and Luck was delighted that each suite had its own private pool. Lett showered and tucked herself into bed, trying to let her cares drift away.

In the morning, they all walked down the boardwalk to a shopping center to buy swimsuits. Senya chose a frilly pink bikini, which she blamed on Lett when Rhot asked. Lett herself, though, had chosen a red one with cross-straps, and the Vesk seemed unconvinced.

The first five days passed in a blur of beach-lounging, kite-flying, and holoball-playing, leaving Lett feeling more and more nervous about what she knew was coming when she returned. When, on the evening of the fifth day, a scuba venture uncovered a strange broken ring covered with Ancient Azlanti runes inlaid with abysium, she was almost relieved to have something to take her mind off of it.

She showed them, by night, how the abysium’s glow changed as its distance from its source did, a use she’d learned about, but never seen in action. They followed it—not far, but into the jungles of Asana. While they were far from the densest jungles the planet had to offer, they still found themselves pushing through tangled vines, stepping their ways over fallen trees, sinking into calf-deep moss beds, and avoiding the strange and brilliant fungi that sprawled across the ground.

A stepped pyramid stood before them at last, around which no plants had grown. Ten feet or so from the pyramid’s apparent entrance, the reason for this was revealed to be a glimmering force field, which flickered green when Lett bumped into it, then slowly settled back to transparent.

Frowning, Lett placed one hand against the force field. Ripples of greenish light in the shape of her hand expanded from where she touched it. She placed the half-ring against it, and it flared brighter than ever. Startlingly, her hand, and the broken ring, shifted slowly through the force field. With a feeling like she was walking into a hanging silk sheet, she was able to pass the rest of her body through, and eventually, the sensation faded as the greenish light skittered off her body, returning to the field.

Senya tried to reach out the way Lett had, and found the forcefield impenetrable. Lett frowned, considering the arc of stone and abysium in her hand, pacing around. The brightest flare she got was when she placed it in a groove carved into the door, but it seemed that its other half was required to pass by, so she removed it, tracing it around, looking for lesser flares while the crew moved around the edge of the force field with her.

“There,” Sparky said, pointing to a flow of water coming down one side of the temple. He had been quiet, as he usually was, casting a spell, maybe in search of a magical trace. “In the pool.”

Lett followed the flow down to a small basin, which overflowed and spilled out onto the paving stones, encouraging slippery algae to grow. Another arc of stone, of a size to be the ring’s other half, rested there. Carefully, she picked her way across the stones and lifted it out, fitted the two halves together—though they didn’t stick, the edges aligned perfectly, with no sign of wear—and pressed them into the indentation on the door.

As it slid downward with nary a sound, the forcefield flickered three times and then faded, and the crew joined her.

“Well, I’m not going first,” Sparky said, shying away from the shadowed entrance.

Rhot shouldered forth. “I will,” he said, in a tone that told Lett there would be no arguing. With a slight bow of her head, she stepped back, and the Vesk led the way up the short span of stairs just inside, the insets in his armor lighting the way.

They came into a room illuminated by the same bluish-green glow of abysium, flickering beneath pools of water.

“Damn Ancient Azlanti,” Lett muttered. “Didn’t they know this stuff makes you sick?”

She looked around the rest of the room, finally settling back on the stone bed at its center. Twelve cups and four balls rested along the top, all apparently forged of pure adamantine. Senya picked one up.

“I wonder how much this is worth, on its own,” she said, considering it, despite the glare from Lett.

“It’s a puzzle,” Lett said. “I wonder if it does anything. Senya, put that cup down for a moment.”

The lashunta obliged, though regretfully, and as soon as she had set the cup back into place, spirals of magic flowed through the rune engine carved on the surface of the stone, lifting the cups up over the balls.

“Everyone watch the ball closest to you,” Lett ordered, keeping track of the two in the middle. “We’ll need to know where they end up.”

For nearly a minute, they shuffled, growing faster and faster. Lett lost the position of one of the two she was watching, but when they came to a halt and she tapped on the other, it flared with light, and a line of magic ran down the side of the stone bed and across the floor to the wall opposite the stairs. Senya, Sparky, and Luck each tapped one as well, and three more lines stretched out. When all four were in place, they outlined a doorway, which slid down and out of the way much as the outer door had, though it had been invisible a moment before. Rhot stepped back into position, and Lett followed, trying to make out the runes etched along the walls as they walked, but pushed onwards by Senya before she could manage.

At the top of the stairs, a trap door sealed shut behind them, leaving no trace it had ever been there.

“Well, we aren’t getting out that way,” Senya muttered.

This room featured three poles set into the ground, the first of which contained a stack of rings.

“I hope these aren’t all just puzzles,” Luck grumbled. “I want to fight something.”

“Well, this one’s easy,” Rhot said. “If you know a little math, and the basic structure of the puzzle.”

He counted the rings, then touched the top one, and it lifted, setting onto the third pole. The second went onto the center pole, then the first on top of it.

“Explain this to me, please?” Senya wondered, then waved a hand. “Never mind. I’ve got it. One at a time, smaller on top of larger, and you want to move them all to the last tower.”

“Exactly,” Rhot said, continuing to shift rings. After a moment, he stopped. “I think I did something wrong.”

“I know,” Luck said brightly, lifting a ring that Rhot had just moved. “This one goes here. And  _ this _ one goes here.”

She kept lifting them, following the pattern. As she snapped the bottom one into place, Lett finally started to notice it, nodding along. Senya had apparently picked up on it too, doing it in her own head, her antennae moving to point to whichever stones should be moved next. Finally the rings were all stacked on the last pole, and as before, a rune engine opened the next door, leading up again.

The shape of the pyramid was more obvious now, as they continued up. These stairs were placed sideways, and as Rhot stepped in and gave a startled shout, Lett was able to see what was going on. Three apparent statues in this room, each dressed in abysium armor with rainbow-colored stones set into it, had come to life.

“Abysium automata,” Lett breathed, jogging up the last few steps. “Cool.”

Of course, it was significantly  _ less _ cool when one of them raised a stone arc in the shape of a crossbow and shot a jolt of electricity at her. Still, something she’d learned tickled the back of her mind. The structure of this place started to make sense.

“Sparky!” she shouted, as the ysoki made his way up the stairs. “Hit one with a spell, would you?”

“Trying!” he answered, drawing a circuit in the air with his claws, then charging it. A cone of flames sprayed from it, towards two of the automata and Rhot, who dropped to the ground to avoid the blast.

Just for a moment, as the technomagic flames touched it, a rune engine inscribed on its armor flickered brightly.

“Go for the heartstones!” Lett said, using the pommel of her sword to strike at the one just in front of her. The stone cracked slightly, but she didn’t see its blow coming; she was knocked backwards. Senya stepped in and punched it, and the heartstone fractured in half. Rhot and Luck held the other two off of Sparky while he tried to damage the stones. Finally, Luck’s doshko knocked one out of its settings, and Rhot’s solar blade shattered the other.

“The hell were those?” Sparky wondered, breathing heavily.

Lett picked up the undamaged heartstone. “Aeon automata. Ancient Azlanti creations that pioneered technomancy. These stones were imbued with the souls of the dead. Horrific, really, but an Aeon Guard was said to serve in death as he did in life. When the stone is broken, his soul is finally freed. There are books on the subject. I read one for my Azlanti Language and Culture class, in university.” She threw down the stone, shattering it against the stone floor. The wall on the other side of the room had slid open, revealing a ladder.

“What do you suppose is next?” Rhot wondered.

“There should only be three tests.” Lett frowned. “If you aren’t feeling up to going first, I will, just in case. I’m just hoping for confirmation, before I tell you any inaccurate information.”

Rhot shrugged. “Your go.”

Lett nodded, scaling the ladder quickly. The room at the top, surely enough, was open to the sky, though she suspected the force field kept rain out. Its generator sat there also, a great green orb on a square tower.

“Come up,” she called down. “It’s safe.”

Runes covered one wall, and Lett finally took the time to read them.

_ This place marks the site of the fourth launch of seven: Asana, Castrovel. The challenges which you have overcome require a creative self, a self of sight, of mind, of strength. Thus, we share with you our knowledge. _

_ Our planet will be long hidden when this is discovered. Even we will have forgotten who we are and why we built this, save a few who may not even survive. But the Watcher that built this place guards it, and what you read is truth.  _

_ It has been nine thousand years since the City of our ancestors was driven beneath the waves, since those who were distinguished enough fled our world. It has been four thousand and six hundred and eight since our Watcher raised Absalom in its place. They say there that he is dead, and we are fewer than ever, but we carry out our sacred task. Seven Beacons we launch; one great Signal we create, a world to hide a world. _

_ To those who are willing to shoulder the responsibility of being a hero, we leave the things contained in this room. We know not whether they will be of use to you, as we know not how technology will grow in the time between, but they are the best of what we have to offer. _

_ Perhaps the names have survived, if you know our writing. We are the people of Azlant, a nation on the planet Golarion. We are among the last of its blood. Our Watcher is called Aroden, and though he is silent, we refuse rumors of his death. May he Watch over you as well, if you answer the call. _

She read it quietly aloud, and Senya stood by her, growing apparently increasingly agitated.

“More of these fuckin’ heroics.” The augmented scowled. “I’m not opposed to taking the treasure, but I’m not sure how I feel about the responsibility that comes with it.”

“And Azlant?” Sparky’s whiskers twitched. “I’ve heard of their descendants. They’re a human-supremacist nightmare empire.”

“Aren’t you trying to stop the Black Stars from finding Golarion? It seems these followers of Aroden hid it. Maybe knowing as much, you’ll find them easier to stop.” She paused, thinking of something else. “Aroden is a familiar name, but I can’t place it.” Lett tried to keep her voice light, but a dizziness had just come over her, and her leg suddenly felt as though it couldn’t support her weight.

“Are you alright?” Senya asked.

Lett frowned. “That automaton hit me. It’s probably fine,” she said, leaning on her sheathed sword as though it was a cane.

“You don’t look fine.”

Lett stepped over to the chest behind them. Beside it stood a set of abysium armor encrusted with aeon stones, like the stuff the automata had been wearing, and another, smaller chest. Inside it were several artifacts that appeared to be weapons, and the thing Lett had really been looking for: a triangular pendant bearing a winged eye. An amulet bearing the symbol of Aroden. She turned it over in her hands, considering it, realizing why the name was familiar. The Church of Iomedae had risen out of the ashes of Aroden’s after he had disappeared. She remembered an exchange between herself and Mihaluín.

_ “Why’s she called the Inheritor, anyways? What did she inherit?” _

_ “Her entire church following. I’m surprised you asked. Most people just roll with it. History bores them.” _

_ “I like history,” Lett protested, and the elf shrugged.  _

_ “She was a follower of another god. Her name’s been lost, but she was herald to an Azlanti god called Aroden, once. Iomedae gained that position, and later Aroden’s position, when both of them died.” _

_ “I didn’t know gods could die.” _

_ “Most people today consider it heretical to teach of such things.” _

_ “What happens when they do?” _

_ “I was not there, but I am told it felt as though his connection to all of his clergy had been severed.” _

Despite what she’d always been told, though, the amulet didn’t feel cold or dead, but warm to the touch, like she was brushing the skin of a living being. 

She tucked it into the hideaway compartment built into her forearm, along with the symbol of Iomedae she carried, deep in thought; so deep, in fact, that she forgot she was injured. She tried to take a step, and promptly collapsed into a heap in front of Senya, emitting a curse in High Azlanti.

The mechanic lifted her up and turned her over with a worried expression.

“Take off your armor,” Senya ordered, glaring at Sparky and Rhot. “You two… skedaddle.”

When they were gone, Lett unclasped the plates that covered her chest and torso and tore away her carbonskin gambeson, and to her surprise, found she was bleeding.

“One of your coils ruptured,” Senya said, chastising. “And the artificial muscles are pretty damaged. Give me a moment.” She pulled out a toolkit from inside her own arm, tweaking at something; Lett scowled at the stabbing sensation. “There. You aren’t bleeding, now, at least. We should get going. Luck, take her armor, please. Can you stand?”

Lett frowned, glancing around for something she could wear, as her gambeson was now ripped beyond repair. The chest contained a few green wool robes, embroidered with golden thread. She lifted one and threw it over herself, then pushed herself up to sitting. She closed her eyes, murmuring a prayer— _ Goddess, grant me the patience to recover _ —and climbed to her feet.

The wall parted in front of them, revealing a ramp that led down the outside of the pyramid, generated from the same stuff as the force field. Sparky and Rhot gathered the rest of the treasure and followed. As the others walked, Lett limped along as fast as she could, leaning heavily on Senya. She learned quickly which parts of her leg would still take cues and hold her weight, and (after a few falls) which wouldn’t. Once, she tore the artificial muscle beyond usefulness, and Sparky spent about a quarter of an hour casting a spell that made it temporarily functional again. When, a short distance from their resort, it tore once more, Rhot set down the chest he was carrying momentarily, lifted Lett on top of it, and carried them both.

The fatigue had settled in by the time they returned; Lett managed to walk halfway into her room before falling asleep on the floor, though someone lifted her to the bed during the night.

She woke and glanced at the clock; it sported the hour of 1500. Groaning, she pushed herself out of bed, braced herself on the wall and then on her sword, dragged herself to one of the chairs by the pool, and collapsed into it, squinting at the late afternoon sun while she folded her hands over the pommel of her sword and prayed.

Though the non-mechanical side of her hadn’t been damaged at all, she felt better afterwards. With a chuckle, she realized she was still wearing the woolen robe, apparently a priest’s garment.

Luck joined her a few moments later, a plaintive pout on her face.

“What’s up?” Lett wondered.

“Rhot braided a dead eel into my hair,” she complained. “I can’t get it out, and none of them will help me. Sparky and Rhot have some kind of agreement, and Senya just thinks it’s hilarious.”

Lett sighed, though she couldn’t help but smile. “I don’t have anything better I could be doing. Come closer. I may need to do this left-handed.”

She spent a few minutes untangling the rubbery, mostly dried creature from Luck’s hair, setting it on the deck next to her.

“Do you want to come out and play holoball?” the young lashunta wondered, a glimmer in her eyes.

“I don’t think I can,” Lett said. “I don’t think I’d even make it back across the balcony, at this point. Something snapped when I sat down.”

“Oh, right.” Luck frowned, picking up the eel, and disappeared into the room. When she returned, having disposed of the creature, she was dragging Senya by the arm, and Senya, in turn, was dragging a rolling case full of tools, scrap metal, and UPBs.

“I guess it’s time, then,” Lett said, eyeing Senya warily. The pair of them had discussed making upgrades to Jenovere’s work, but Lett didn’t like the glint in Senya’s eye.

“Anything specific you want?”

“Go crazy. I can’t exactly stop you.” Lett hoped the bitterness wasn’t obvious in her voice, but she guessed that hope was futile.

“Hey. At least you’re getting these replaced by someone you sort of trust, and not some evil cult.”

Lett laughed despite herself. “Yeah, that’s fair.”

“How much are you willing to pay for this?”

Lett frowned. “Money shouldn’t be a problem. But… nothing too fancy. If you have any special metals, maybe. Speed mods in my legs, if you can. And…”

“What else?” Senya interrupted, smirking knowingly. “Anything else on the lower side?”

Lett’s face flushed bright red. “What? No. I don’t even use that.” Senya gave a reproachful look. “I don’t! I really don’t. Okay?”

“If not that, then what were you going to ask for?” 

“Well, all this plating over my chest and back… most of it isn’t part of the prosthesis. It gets hot under there. Could I, like, shove that back?”

Senya’s lips curled into an amused smile. “So you  _ are  _ trying to impress your boyfriend.”

Lett’s eyebrows furrowed. “No. Kaston’s not my boyfriend.”

“Sure. Well, you do realize that plating is there for support, right?” Senya wondered. “If you want it gone, I’ll have to bolt your arm into your collarbone.”

Lett grimaced, weighing her options. “That’s alright,” she decided finally. “I’ve been through stuff that’s hurt worse.”

Still, she couldn’t help but cry out when Senya set the bolts.


	22. The Measure's Allowance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter this week, since I'm on vacation. Enjoy!

The message from Kaston was still pinned at the top of Lett’s comm unit, dated the first of Sarenith, three days ago. It wasn’t sent from his, of course. It was most likely transmitted from a burner. If anyone on Citadel Demain discovered it, he could be executed.

_ Lictor Xaevir refuses to concede to your agreement. It seems I cannot help you. Carry on as you were, and if there is the risk that you will be caught, make the best attempt you can to turn yourself in first. _

She gazed out the window. The Citadel’s dark shape hovered over Vesk-3, its outer rings turning slowly as they generated artificial gravity.

“What is that?” Senya wondered. “Lett, do you…”

“Citadel Demain Nova,” she answered shortly, interrupting.

“…Alright, now in Common, please?”

“A Citadel, the mobile base of operations of a Hellknight order. This one belongs to the Order of the Scourge.”

“Kaston’s order?” Rhot recognized with a frown. “Why do you say that like it’s a bad thing?”

“It was once my order also, as you may have gathered. I was presumed dead then, but now they know I’m not. I’m told the Lictor is looking for me, to claim me again.” She closed her eyes, hoping they wouldn’t see the tears. “Kaston refused to tell me where the Citadel was headed, but by some stroke of bad luck, it’s here. If I turn myself in, there’s a chance they won’t kill me. If not… well, they know I’m working with you.”

“So what do you want us to do?”

“Approach them,” Lett said. “Establish a communications link. I will make it clear that I am coming back, and that you mean no threat to them. Otherwise… they might shoot us down. If any of you need me, I’ll be changing.”

She ducked into the back of the ship, into the room she still shared with Rhot, and tugged out the small dimensional-graft suitcase Mihaluín had given her when she had first awoken on Cathedralship  _ Mercy _ . From it, she lifted the gashed, melted Armiger’s plate he had removed from her, setting it over her white carbonskin gambeson, carrying the horned helmet under one arm. She tucked her Knight of Golarion armor into the case instead, lifting it in the other hand, and emerged again.

The comm link formed, and Lett found herself, holographically at least, face to face with the Lictor. In actuality,  _ face to face _ was an inaccurate statement, though; he wore his full helm.

“The prodigal child returns,” Xaevir said, with no trace of emotion in his voice. “And of her own accord. Signifier Drayne tried to speak for you, for which he was punished, of course. He knows the Measure does not allow for such things.”

“Explorercraft  _ Stormfalcon _ carries me, Lictor Xaevir,” Lett said, hoping the hologram wouldn’t transmit the waver in her voice. “I expect that the Order will raise no hand against it, whether its own or that of any devil, and I return to you.”

“The  _ Stormfalcon _ and her crew will come to no harm. In fact, I intend to enlist their help with a business matter. The fighter ahead of you will escort you to the Sky Dock, where I will meet you personally.”

His tone sent fingers of ice clawing through Lett’s gut, but she nodded. “As you order, Lictor,” she said, and he closed the link.

“He doesn’t seem too happy to see you.”

“Xaevir is never happy to see anyone.” Lett’s voice was tight, as though she was being strangled by some unseen force. “I can’t entrust this to him, of course, and I have no idea what he’s done to Kaston, or whether I’ll be allowed to see him. But… this case holds my paladin’s armor. Use it, if you think it will help you, or keep it, or give it back to Knight-Paladin Mihaluín, or my father. My father is usually at the Swordlight Cathedral, or you can ask there where the Sixth Act Fleet is assigned.” Lett’s eyes squeezed shut. “And one more thing. If I  _ am _ killed, please take whatever is left of me to the Cathedral. If there’s nothing left, at least pray for my soul. I know none of you worship Iomedae, but if you pray on my behalf, maybe she’ll hear you. Your own gods will, at least.”

She set the armor on an unused seat and returned to her quarters, closing the door too quietly, and didn’t emerge again until they had docked. Then, she had pulled her hair back, and her expression was flat. It hid something bitter underneath, though; something that was only visible when she made eye contact, which she avoided, staring straight ahead.


	23. Excision

“Now that the civilians have been dealt with,” Xaevir said, unfastening his helmet, “I would like you to explain to me why you did not report back to us sooner.”

Lett considered him. She had never seen his face, or even been in the same room as him. He, like Kaston, seemed to be mostly Chelish, but his long hair was pale blond. She focused on it, let it temper her voice. When she spoke at last, it came out as cold as she had hoped. “Because as far as I knew, sir, I was still an Armiger when I was left for dead. The Measure allows that an Armiger who does not pass her test may leave the Order freely if she survives beyond the challenge’s duration. Perhaps I would have more seriously considered coming back if I had felt that my life held any value for you, but while Signifier—excuse me, while  _ Paralictor _ Drayne abandoned me, I was lifted from that asteroid by the ships of the Sixth Act Fleet. By, that is, the Iomedaean navy, who knew full well that I sought to become a Hellknight, yet went out of their way to extract me and restore me to my full strength.”

“Yet you did not fail your test. Paralictor Drayne requested, on your behalf, that you be made a full Scourgeknight.” He glanced to the side, and startled, Lett realized that Kaston stood there as well, wearing all-black tactical armor that blended into their surroundings, rather than his formal plate.

She forced her eyes off of him as he removed his helmet, and back to Xaevir. “Yes. I know. He informed me of as much, as well as that his offer was accepted.”

“Then you will understand my issue,” Xaevir said, “when I learned that you had also become a member of the Knights of Golarion. You cannot be a member of two knightly orders at once.”

“Then, I would argue, my membership with them is more valid.” Lett stared directly at Xaevir’s eyes, though whether he could see hers was questionable. “For I never swore myself to the code of the Scourge. I have never declared myself a Hellknight. I am a paladin, Lictor, and a paladin’s oath I  _ have _ sworn.”

Xaevir considered her argument for a moment. “Your logic is solid, yet I cannot let you walk away based on logic alone. Let us compromise, Scourgeknight Duma. You will serve for three months under the command of Paralictor Drayne. If at the end of those three months, you have broken neither the Measure nor the orders of your superiors, putting the Measure first when they conflict, you will be free to go.”

“I can’t accept that, Lictor. What of my paladin’s oath?”

“Recite to me its tenets.”

Lett did, one by one, emphasizing that she would never willingly commit an evil act, and Xaevir frowned.

“It will be difficult for you to carry out your duties if you are unable to summon or bind devils.”

“I am not a Signifier,” Lett said. “That shouldn’t be part of my duties in the first place.”

“Is it not my job to decide what duties my subordinates carry out?”

“That’s a matter of your authority against Iomedae’s,” Lett said, tapping the sword at her waist. Its whitened steel hilt clashed with the dark of her armor. “Do you expect to best a god, Lictor?”

Xaevir’s eyes seemed darker than before, though they had always been pools of black. “Fine, then. I will not request such acts of you. Put your paladin’s oath first, and we shall see how long you last. But that oath is not mine to punish, if it is broken.”

“And if I break the Measure or my orders before the three months have passed?”

“Then you will be executed,” Xaevir said simply, and just for a moment, Lett saw a flicker of panic cross Kaston’s eyes.

“I cannot act on such high stakes for three months. If you threaten me with death, I will remain here for one, and one alone.”

“Acceptable. Then we have an agreement. All that is left, then, is to discuss your punishment for desertion.”

“As the code of the Scourge says, a monitored reckoning. Fifty lashes, halved if the party turns herself in. Twenty-five.” She did not let the wince reach her face. Fifty was akin to a death sentence; twenty-five meant days of recovery that would make keeping the Measure difficult. “As it is monitored, and for punishment, I may name who will finish my reckoning if my hand fails. I name Paralictor Drayne.”

Xaevir’s eyes narrowed. “These are special circumstances. He will carry out the whole of your reckoning, or I will assign someone you do not know to pick up where you left off. Actually, at that, I am reminded that you defied his orders before he abandoned you.”

“She did no such thing,” Kaston intervened. “Or if she did, she did so only because it would have been impossible for her to carry them out.”

Lett shook her head. “No. The orders were not unreasonable. I thought it better to play the hero and attempt to close the portal.”

“And certainly you remember the punishment for that as well?”

Lett grimaced. “Ten more lashes. And I will accept whatever you assign to Kast—to Paralictor Drayne—for speaking untruly to you, though I am sure he did so unintentionally.”

The visors in Kaston’s mask were slid down, hiding his expression, but Lett hoped for his sake that he had not reacted to her statement.

“That is acceptable. That brings you to a total of forty. By his hand or your own?”

Lett considered the ultimatum, glancing up at Kaston just for a moment. “By his.”

Xaevir nodded. “Paralictor, if you will.” Despite the statement’s veneer of choice, the Lictor’s voice offered none. Certainly, Kaston’s mask was recording everything that each of them did, so Lett followed mutely as he led her to a stockade of sorts and unfastened her armor to bare her back.

Xaevir shifted upon seeing that her arm, beneath her armor, was mechanical, but he made no comment. He only stood by as Kaston fastened the cuffs around her hands and uncoiled a flail punctuated by glaring red plasma.

At the first lash, the barbs dug into Lett’s skin, tearing it up where it did not melt shut from the heat of the plasma. She bit her tongue to keep from crying out, and tasted blood. Kaston’s mask hid his face; she wondered whether, beneath it, he showed any emotion. She accepted the beating, never making a sound, though silent sobs racked her body at the eleventh lash, and when the quaking stopped at the eighteenth, it was because she had dropped from consciousness. Kaston kept on, blinking back tears beneath his mask.  _ Thirty-eight… thirty-nine… forty. Forty. It is over. _

“She has paid for her crimes,” Xaevir said to Kaston, as the Paralictor recoiled his whip, never showing so much as an out-of-place blink despite the tear tracks that lined his face. “And you, Paralictor? It seems there is something you are not telling me. Do you have feelings for her?”

For a fleeting moment, Kaston considered trying to lie again, despite the enchantment that saturated the central portion of the Citadel. When he spoke, though, the truth was on his tongue, and he was no longer sure whether it was his lack of will or whether he had wanted to tell it in the first place.

“I do.” His masked face met Xaevir’s almost defiantly. “It pains me to harm her. But it is necessary. She has defied the laws of our Order.”

“As have you. Perhaps if my lessons of emotional isolation have not reached you yet, they will reach you through her. Give her five more lashes, Paralictor Drayne. Consider this a test of loyalty.”

Kaston clenched his teeth, uncoiling the whip once more.  _ The Code of the Scourge speaks against this, but he is my commander. _ And then another thought, fleeting but accentuated, a prayer he had not come up with, crossed his mind.

_ Inheritor, shield your servant from the hand I raise against her in fear. _

Five more times he flung the flail, adding to the patterns of torn, bleeding skin and scorch marks covering Lett’s back. Xaevir watched. He had put his helm back on. He was as faceless as anyone else here, only with bigger horns.

“Again.”

“What for?” The monitoring equipment inside Kaston’s mask told Xaevir the Paralictor’s expression was barely clinging to neutral. “She has already paid for her crimes and mine. Forcing me to whip her as a test of my loyalty is covered neither by the Measure nor the Code of the Scourge, though under the laws of the Veskarium, upon whose hospitality we currently depend, it may be considered cruel and unusual punishment.”

“Would you take twenty lashes to save her five?”

Xaevir’s question left Kaston at a loss for words, biting his tongue to keep from saying yes. “To save her five more atop the forty-five she has already taken? That could be the determining factor between whether she lives or dies,  _ sir. _ Would I take twenty lashes to save her from death? That I would.”

“You  _ have _ spent too much time around this paladin. Have you forgotten where you came from, Kaston Drayne?” The way he said Kaston’s name was taunting, as though he was leaving something out. Kaston’s eyes darkened, and he stood with the scourge uncoiled, awaiting further orders.

“You are dismissed, Paralictor Drayne,” Xaevir said finally. “Take her with you. And let this serve as a reminder that your loyalty should be to the Order first.”

Kaston bit down the words that bubbled up to his tongue.  _ The Order’s loyalty should be to you _ , the devil on his shoulder murmured.  _ Why do you let them toss you around? _

“Yes, sir,” he said, shushing the voice. With a nod and a salute, he gathered the armor he had taken from Lett, clipping it loosely back into place. Wells of blood where the wounds had not cauterized slicked the plates of his own gauntlets as he lifted her over his shoulder, where he would make minimal contact with her wounds, and carried her to the only place where he knew they would not be disturbed.


	24. The Feral Hound

Kaston lay Lett carefully on his own bed, folding the blankets over her bare hindquarters. He had grown accustomed to treating his own wounds after a reckoning, but his never consisted of forty-five lashes. With a handful of compostable towels, he managed to soak up most of the blood, then he cleaned her wounds. It was a long process, though, and one he had done many times, and his mind wandered.

_ Have you forgotten where you came from, Kaston Drayne? _

“What does he mean by that? Does he speak of Embroi?” Kaston murmured aloud, slipping into the language he had grown up speaking. Some of its consonants were sharpened and some just stuck in the throat, but it was more comfortable than plain Common, more familiar. Maybe it was that the songs that comforted him had been sung in it.

Xaevir’s words, though, had stirred fragments of memories, memories that threatened to pull Kaston from the calm mind he had constructed for himself.

_ He crumpled to his knees, feeling the bones in his legs and back break again. If this went like it had so many times before, they would be reset and splinted, and he would be forced to work tomorrow. He whimpered, and the master’s hand traced his back, leaving a trail of agony in its wake. _

_ “You are near the end, child of Thrune. A few breaths more, and your soul will begin its transformation.” _

_ “No!” the girl hidden in the shadows whispered. The master did not hear, but Kaston did. “You can’t have him.” _

A tear leaked from his eye. He blinked it away. It followed the contours of his face down to his chin, then dropped off, blending with the saline solution he was using to clean Lett’s wounds.

_ Stubbornly, he held his breath, and the girl cried out as the master brought its great whip down upon Kaston’s back again, forcing him to exhale. At the sound of her voice, the master turned to her instead, leaving the boy in the dirt. She scrambled to hide something behind her back. _

_ “Nasty, naughty Abrogail,” it growled. “A whore like all those who bore your name before you. Was it your idea to bring him this far? Was it your plan to escape? There is no escaping Embroi, just as there is no escaping Hell.” _

_ “Fuck you,” the girl shouted. “We aren’t part of your shitty contract, you bitch. Leave him alone.” _

_ Behind the devil’s form, Kaston took a shuddering breath, one that leaked from his nostrils with a shiver of uncomprehending fear. He cried out as the ache of his broken bones swelled into incomprehensible agony. His skeleton re-sealed itself into a configuration it shouldn’t have made, a faintly canine shape. His cry became a howl mid-exhale. _

_ The girl brought her hand to her eyes, turning away, hiding her tears. _

_ “Bitch,” she repeated, and when the master lifted its whip to strike her, she caught it and pulled, throwing the devil off balance. “I’ll kill you. I will.” _

_ “Bold words from a petulant whore.” The master wrapped its whip around her throat with one fluid motion, pulling her close. Then, it cried out and dropped her, and wheeled on Kaston. He held its heel between his teeth; he tasted its rancid, black blood; he felt the crunch of bones. He lost himself in the battle, trying to break from the strange chains that contorted his body, but trying more to force the same agony on the master who had tormented him for so long. His mind faded, becoming the mind of a beast. He was not a hellhound. He was too feral for Hell. _

_ “Go, Kaston! If you’re still in there… if you can hear me… go! Run!” _

_ His name startled him back to consciousness. His ears perked. He tried to move a leg, and realized that when he was not acting on instinct, he didn’t know how to move in this alien form. His paws slipped out from beneath him, and he shouted. The sound came out as a whimper. He tried to say his sister’s name, and it came out as a rolling bark. _

_ The master rose up behind them, having reclaimed its whip, and then everything was blackness. _

Kaston’s hands trembled, trying to force themselves back into the shapes of claws, and he forced them back to their positions.

_ No more. _ The memory tried to dredge itself up again, and he did as he had practiced for years. He sealed it away inside a box and brought up, instead, the memory of passing his advancement, the feeling of victory. The happiest moment of his life, he realized suddenly, and it threw him into a new crisis.

_ Have I truly never been happy? _

_ Do you need to be happy? _

_ You could leave. You could look for happiness. _

_ No. ‘I am a Hellknight first and always.’ It’s in the oath of the Scourge. _

“Damn it all.” Kaston collected the compostable towels, depositing them in the recycling slot before drying his eyes with a fresh one.

_ You were born free. You had the chance, and you sold yourself to Hell anyways. _

“Be silent,” Kaston told the devil on his shoulder in old Chelaxian, and to his surprise, it was, at least for a little while.


	25. Fresh Scars

Lett startled awake to find her forehead and chest resting on a cushion, and something cool and damp yet burning brushing at her back. She gritted her teeth, but couldn’t keep herself from hissing in pain.

“Ah. You’re awake.” Kaston’s voice, cracking slightly over the next words. “And you’re okay, thank the gods. I’m the only one here. I know it stings, but I don’t have anything less painful than alcohol-based salves in this kit, or anywhere on the Citadel, for that matter. Something about object lessons.”

Lett chuckled, though it was dampened by the smaller amount of air she could take in from having her lungs compressed beneath her. “Fuckin’ Hellknights.” She paused to inhale, then wondered, “Was there any damage to my augmentations?”

“Just a few slashes across the paint on the edges. Nothing structural, at least not that I can tell, but I’m no mechanic.” He applied another handful of the medical salve, and as he drew his hand away, it brushed lower than he had expected, and Lett jerked slightly. Kaston’s face went bright red, and he was thankful for the darkness. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s alright.” She shifted back into place. “It just startled me, that’s all. The artificial synapses there don’t really get tripped often.”

“If the plating on your prosthetics acts as armor, wouldn’t it trigger every time someone hit you there?”

“Well, first of all,” Lett said slowly, as if she would stand up and knock some sense into him if she wasn’t wounded, “I can switch the artificial synapses to end at the layer below the armor plating when I’m fighting, if I’m not just wearing armor already. And second, it’s not exactly a common fighting style to run around hitting girls in the  _ ass _ , Kaston Drayne.” She winced as he applied more of the salve. “Are you almost done with that?”

“Your entire back is torn up,” he said apologetically. “So, no. I’m about halfway, and you were asleep for most of the first half.”

“You weren’t kidding when you said Xaevir doesn’t take anything lightly, so long ago.”

“He is a model Scourgeknight,” Kaston said, then glanced at his mask sitting across the room, lowered his voice, and murmured, “Most of the time. When he isn’t being blinded by power, or by fantasies of the Hell he constructs in his mind. You didn’t have to accept my punishment, Scarlett. It could have killed you.”

Her full name sent just a flicker of warning through her, but she inhaled and wondered, “If I had lied to him, would he have let you off more easily?”

“You couldn’t have. The entire heart of the Citadel is enchanted with a zone of truth.”

“I’m more stubborn than you think. And smarter, too. I know you know I chose to break your orders. You lied beneath that zone. I could have done it.”

“And what would Iomedae think of that? Of you lying to a legitimate authority?”

“I am supposed to act honorably and in the defense of others. What I did there was what most people would consider honorable.” She hissed as Kaston dabbed at an especially mutilated patch.

“So lying to the Lictor would be okay, if it was in my defense? From what I’ve heard of this oath of yours, I wouldn’t expect…”

“What I did was, by my oath, the best option. I maintained my own honor by righting a wrong. I defended you. And I preserved your honor by not allowing you to be flogged in front of every other man, woman, non-binary individual, and devil currently on this station, because if a Paralictor breaks a rule, you know he would make a big show of it. I remember that happening once before.”

“Does your oath compel you to defend your comrades’ honor, then?”

Lett blushed, indignant. “Yes. It does. Or to—ouch!—try, at least.”

“And where did that get you? You’re here hissing and groaning while I treat your wounds, wounds that could have been fatal.”

Lett said something in Chelaxian, then started to repeat it in Common.

“You don’t need to translate.  _ I will guard the honor of my fellows, both in thought and deed, and I will have faith in them. I will suffer death before dishonor _ .” He spoke the words in Common for her. “The Knights of Golarion’s code?”

“Part of my paladin’s oath. If I had died in defending you, my oath would still stand fulfilled. But I can’t expect you to understand. There aren’t enough paladins left for this to be common knowledge, maybe. I am expected to uphold that oath before all else. If I want to live, I must be strong enough to defend my honor, and that of others, without dying. What I learn from this is that I need to become stronger, because I keep on having close calls.”

“Forty-five lashes take a lot out of anyone.” Kaston frowned. “What you  _ need _ , right this moment, is to sit still while I finish putting this salve on you, and then some rest. And I’m not sure what you mean by ‘keep’ having close calls, Scarlett, but I am starting to think I need to watch you every minute if I want you to live long enough to… well, to be part of this war against Rovagug, for one thing.”

Lett chuckled weakly. “Not every minute. Just any minute where my friends are threatened. And that includes you, so—ow! —don’t you go getting yourself in trouble, either.”

Kaston pulled his hand away from Lett’s back, wiping off the excess salve and sealing the canister. The whole of it burned like hell—Lett wouldn’t be surprised if there  _ was _ some infernal ingredient in that stuff, knowing the Hellknights—but it seemed at least to be working.

“Now. I know some people, especially Hellknight people, are nervous about this sort of stuff, so I will always ask. Are you okay with magical healing?”

“Right,” she muttered. “I’m a paladin.” Pressing her hands to her sides to the best of her ability, she murmured something, and a flood of faint golden light seeped from beneath them, absorbed into her skin. “That’s what I’ve got. I could use a little more, though, if you’re willing.”

With a short chuckle, he tapped his fingertips together, drawing them apart slowly and carefully. A cluster of faintly red-tinted energy grew between them, and he laid it on her back gently. It seemed to melt and spread across her wounds. The sensation was different from that of the blessing Mihaluín had taught her, not exactly arcane but not purely divine, yet it seemed more familiar than she had expected. In fact, she wasn’t exactly sure what she expected. Something that hurt, maybe, after the previous half hour.

She exhaled slowly, feeling the magic spread, and wondered, “Can you put your hands back on my back?”

Kaston tensed. “Why?”

“I…” Lett flushed. “I don’t know. They’re comforting, I guess. I like the weight and the warmth.”

His palms came to rest gently over the freshly healed scars, and he left them there until Lett once again drifted off to sleep.

Kaston dozed next to her when she stirred and tried to shift herself out of bed—out of  _ his _ bed, she now realized—still fully armored, though his mask and helmet sat to the side on a small table. She traced a hand down his back, wondering whether his armor disguised scars of his own. No… not wondering whether they were there, she decided, but how many it hid.

She tried to push herself up, but her back cracked and oozed, sending shivers of pain through her. So, instead, she sighed and lay her head back on the pillows where Kaston had propped it, making sure she could breathe. Maybe he sensed her stirring somehow, because not long after, he shifted, turned over, and stood up. Lett heard him muttering to himself, something about caring too much, and smiled despite herself. He tapped her shoulder, and she automatically responded, “I’m awake.”

“Good. I’m going to reapply the salve, do a little more healing, and suture and bandage what’s still open. We’ve been sent to escort our favorite Starfinders as they rummage through a previously abandoned android factory for signs of the Order of the Crux, as well as the Black Stars, and any connection that may exist between them.”

“Sounds like fun.” Lett paused for a moment, then said, “The mission. Not the salve.”

Kaston chuckled. “I figured as much. Hold still, or I’ll have to tie you down.”

Lett smirked. “Wouldn’t you love that.”

“You say that as though  _ you _ wouldn’t.” He traced a pair of fingers down the wounds in her back, and she winced. “First, though, I need to move you to the medical wing, which will be much easier if you can move yourself. Try to sit up, and drink this. I’ll have you eat something once you’re off my bed.”

She pushed herself up, swimming through the motes of light that prickled behind her eyelids, dizzying her, and took the metal canister Kaston provided. The liquid was strangely sweet and bitter all at once. “What is that?”

“Cranberry juice. A plant native to Golarion, apparently, and surprisingly difficult to grow elsewhere. Castrovel is too hot, Akiton too dry. Some farms have been established on Triaxus, but the growing season is a little on and off there. Xaevir likes them, though, so the Citadel has its own farm, with carefully controlled growing conditions. The juice, helpfully, contains several things your body uses for recovering blood, which you lost a lot of, so drink all of it.”

Lett obediently finished the canister, then set it down on the table where Kaston’s helmet has been as he gathered it and put it on. “Am I allowed to stand now?”

“That depends on whether you can without passing out. If you feel dizzy, sit back down and I’ll bring you some water.”

Lett climbed to her feet, abruptly realized that only the blanket had been preserving her decency, and scrabbled to bring it in front of the left half of her chest. Kaston laughed, draping a black tuniclike shirt over her shoulder and turning around. She lifted it over her head carefully, trying not to touch the wounds, and breathed a sigh of relief as she lowered her arms, having managed to do so without tearing open any more scabs. He set a bag of twisted crackers and a chunk of cheese into her hands. “Eat those along the way. Your body needs material to repair itself.” He opened a door and led her through the Citadel, around precarious walkways surrounding the power core at its center, practically a miniature star itself, housed within layers of insulating material but shining through nonetheless. They went up a few stories, but not many, and she followed him into what was certainly part of the medical wing. He slid his visor up, and those they passed directed him through doors he headed toward anyways. Though most of the medical personnel were older than him, he outranked all but a few, and to those few he gave silent salutes. Eventually they ended in a room with polished black walls and an operating table that looked like it could be used for things beyond medical procedures, judging by the number of straps and cuffs on it.

Kaston gestured for Lett to lay on the table, and unscrewed the lid on a small jar of salve. She gritted her teeth as he applied it—her wounds had healed more than she had thought, but it still stung. The warm sensation of his healing touch came next, and then the unpleasant but numbed feeling of a needle sliding through her skin in gentle loops.

And then the gentle tingling of her artificial synapses, alerting her to his touch where she bore no wound. She shifted uneasily, and it lifted.

“No?” he wondered.

She tried to come up with a response, an excuse, but her mind was empty of the words it needed to construct one. “It’s… it’s not unpleasant. But I don’t think… not with you. Not yet. Not after what happened last time.”

She half expected him to make some biting remark about the Church’s guidelines concerning purity and marriage, but he didn’t.

“That’s fine. I’ve learned.” He brushed her hair away from her neck just to one side. “Is a kiss okay?”

Her heart fluttered, and she couldn’t be sure whether it wanted her to refuse or to melt beneath his lips.

“Just one.”

He traced one finger over her neck, holding the hair that had fallen back into its place, and bent over her, planting a light kiss, then shifting her hair back into place with both hands and offering them to help her turn over. She realized that her chest was bare once she was already over, and flushed red from her forehead to her fingertips, clasping her cybernetic hand over her organic breast, wishing suddenly that she hadn’t let him kiss her, wishing that she didn’t find him so attractive after all of what had happened.

“A shame,” she murmured without thinking. “You never had to tie me down.”

“I still can, if you’d like.”

She laughed, trying to force the blush back down, pushing herself up. “We can save that for another day. Don’t we have a mission?”


	26. Silent Killer

“A gift from your lashunta friend,” the bartender said, eyeing them all warily as he set down a tray with four glasses of nox. “Said maybe it’ll help you all relax a little. Her words, not mine.”

Kaston laughed beneath his mask. “Which of them? Short hair or long?”

“Long.” He frowned.

“Funny. I’d have expected that to be a Senya line.” Kaston pushed a credstick across the table. “If she orders anything else, give her the non-alcoholic stuff. She’s underage.”

The bartender arched an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“She has a very good fake. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

Hyetse, the kasatha among the pair of new Armigers at Lett’s side, eyed the tray of nox meaningfully. “Are we  _ allowed _ to drink this?”

Kaston frowned. “It’s a special occasion. One glass each, and only because I don’t expect the Stormfalcon Venture Crew to be operational for at least another day. They’re meeting with some friend or another. Unless any of you don’t want it?”

Lett twisted her lip. “I’ve never had nox. I’ve never had much but incandiol, actually.”

“Let me guess,” said Hyetse. “In church, for communion.”

Lett glowered at him. “You aren’t wrong, Armiger, but you’d better watch your mouth.”

Kaston lifted one glass from the tray. “I’ll take the first drink, if it’ll help any of you ease up a little. Sometimes pleasure is part of business.”

Lett snapped up her own glass, peering into the swirling black liquid. “Isn’t this stuff literally poison?”

“All alcohol is poison,” Kaston answered, and upturned his glass, as if pouring it down his throat. “Some just kills you faster. One glass of nox shouldn’t do the trick, unless you have candy-floss for a stomach.”

With a scowl, Lett sniffed at her glass, and Hyetse, rolling his eyes, advised, “It tastes better than it smells.” He lifted a collapsible straw from somewhere tucked behind his collar and threaded it through his scarf, sucking down his drink.

“Naomni? Do you want yours?”

“I suppose.” The other new Armiger, a woman with the lavender eyes of an Azlanti, picked up her glass. Her Common was still rocky. “Will you drink, Scourgeknight Duma?”

“I’m not losing to some sort of oldblood.” A wolfish, competitive grin spread across Lett’s face, though she had been staring at the table. She lifted her glass. “To special occasions.”

It worked far faster than she had expected. Her thoughts grew fuzzy as she drank it; her nose tingled, and the rest of her body just felt warm and ice-cold all at once, like someone had injected liquid nitrogen into her bloodstream. The world tilted and blurred around her, and then set itself back into place, seeming dimmer somehow. She barely managed to keep a few colorful words inside.

Kaston aside, the entire squad was unsteady on their feet on the return trip to their ship, and while they sat around a table playing a holographic strategy game. Hyetse retired early for the night, and so, surprisingly, did Kaston. Lett found herself alone with Naomni, staring across the table in frustration, finding herself blocked at every turn.

“Damn it, you’re good at this.”

“As are you.” Naomni reached across the table to tap one of Lett’s pieces, which flickered and disappeared as Naomni’s replaced it. “But the Aeon Guard are specially trained in strategy. The best of the best. No one can beat us in a game of skill.”

Lett tensed, staring at the Armiger, and Naomni’s eyes widened.

Slowly, Lett took off her helmet, setting it at her side, beneath her elbow, and stared, dangerously, into those amethyst eyes. The recording equipment in the helmet was switched on—it was always on.

“Please repeat that, Armiger Zea’lai.”

“Lissala has cursed me,” Naomni muttered in High Azlanti.

“Perhaps she has simply stopped blessing you,” Lett answered in the same, and Naomni tensed.

“You speak the Tongue?” A quiet rage boiled behind those lavender eyes.

“I studied it in school. It was not a popular subject, pursued only by those who thought they would need it. I was to be a Steward.” Lett folded her hands together. The nox was wearing off, and she was developing a headache, but clearly Naomni was still slightly drunk. “Tell me, Aeon Operative, why you sought to join the Hellknights.”

“That is classified,” Naomni spit. “And even if it was not, what keeps me from lying to you?”

“I am very good at telling when people are lying. I’ve had practice. As has Paralictor Drayne.”

Naomni grumbled and murmured to herself. Lett didn’t catch every word—there was plenty of slang she’d never heard—but she caught  _ nox _ and  _ boundaries _ and several words referring to genitalia. Finally, she said, “The Aeon Throne has aligned itself with the Cult of the Devourer. I know not why. I was sent to draw the Hellknights to our cause. I was supposed to work my way up the command until I was Lictor, reveal my connection to the Throne, and submit the Order of the Scourge to him. I would have been made a general if it had gone successfully.” An air of bitterness laced her voice. “Now I suppose I will be executed instead. Publicly, and painfully, and before the Throne himself.”

“You won’t have to worry about your King giving you a painful execution,” Kaston said, and Lett and Naomni both jumped in their seats. He had been leaning on the wall in the hallway, blending into the shadows with the holograms on his visor turned off. “Most likely, the Order will beat him to it.” He glanced over Lett. “Xaevir will expect you to pass judgment, as her immediate superior.”

Lett balked. “To execute her?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to phrase it like that.”

Lett gritted her teeth. “And my paladin’s oath?”

“The two conflict, don’t they. The law of Iomedae and the law of the Scourge.” Deep sadness crept into Kaston’s voice. “You shouldn’t have come back, Scarlett. You shouldn’t have told Xaevir that you would stay even a day under his death ultimatum.”

“My paladin’s oath binds me above and beyond the oath of the Scourge.”

Naomni tested the waters with an idiom. It sounded unfamiliar on her tongue. “We’ve all bit off more than we can chew, then.”

Kaston scowled, though only his lips were visible beneath his mask. “Don’t include me in this.”

But she was right, of course. The oath of the Scourge bound him.

“ _ I will suffer death before dishonor, _ ” Lett murmured quietly in Chelaxian, saw Naomni watching her, and turned away.

“Is it really dishonor if you are trying to make the right choice?” Kaston queried.

Lett glanced up at him from where she sat, studying his face.

“You don’t want me to die,” she realized.

“Of course not. I already thought I’d lost you once.” He answered in Chelaxian. She was only barely able to piece the words’ meanings together.

“My paladin’s oath comes first. It has to come first.”

“If you die upholding your oath, your life is wasted. If you break your oath in order to live, you can at least try to explain it to Iomedae later.”

“How many lashes does the Code of the Scourge assign her?” Lett wondered.

“Seventy for treason alone.”

Lett swallowed a lump in her throat, then turned back to Naomni. “If you know of anything that can help you survive a reckoning of seventy lashes, gather it and use it. In giving you those seventy lashes, in torturing you, I would break the oath I swore to Iomedae.”

Naomni’s amethyst eyes were hard as steel. “If you will have no mercy, will execute me with no trial, then I will have no sympathy. May your oath shatter into sand, Scourgeknight.”


	27. Trial and Error

In the end, Naomni  _ was _ given a trial, and a chance to defend herself. But she pled guilty anyways, her eyes the temperature of liquid oxygen, and focused on Lett throughout the trial.

Lett turned her own eyes down when the sentence was given. Sixty lashes; a reduced charge, but almost certainly fatal nonetheless.

The Aeon Guard’s face was flat even without a helmet to conceal it. She was monitored for the few hours before her execution to ensure she did not try to contact the Throne, and Lett locked herself in her room and prayed, over and over, a simple litany:  _ Inheritor, forgive me for what I am about to do. _

But deep down, she knew the prayer wouldn’t be enough. If she tortured Naomni, she would be willingly trespassing outside the bounds of her oath. Silently, she belted her sword on one side, and took up the scourge she had so rarely used, fastening it to the other.

_ I am first and always a Hellknight,  _ a voice murmured in her head, and she shushed it stubbornly.

Upon the block, at the Citadel’s center, Naomni waited wearing a plain black robe. Around the rings of balconies stretching upward, others watched. On the ground floor, though, were only Naomni, Lett, and Kaston, and the Paravicar, Master of Blades, and Xaevir.

Lett’s voice shook as she read the sentence once more. “Armiger Naomni Zea’lai, it has been revealed that your loyalty lies not with the Order but with the Aeon Throne of Azlant. For treason you are to be given sixty lashes of the scourge for which our Order is named. You are entitled to a last request, within reason, if you state it now.”

“My last request is this,” Naomni said, turning to Xaevir. “I am told that you threatened with execution herself the one who is passing my sentence. I request that this be overturned. I wish for her to live with the guilt of what she has done, not break a petty rule so that death will free her.”

The Lictor looked between them for a few moments, then nodded. “Let it be so.”

Naomni knelt, and Lett uncoiled her flail, then scowled and dropped it to the side. Xaevir couldn’t reach her from where he stood, and the Paravicar, who could, seemed unconcerned. She drew her sword swiftly, switching on its rift-edge, and Naomni tensed beneath her.

“In the name of Aroden’s Inheritor, I banish the evil within you,” Lett murmured in High Azlanti, and swung the sword, beheading Naomni. A tear leaked from each of her eyes, and she turned off the sword, sheathing it in a fluid motion,  and stepped back with an almost mocking salute to her officers.

Xaevir dispelled his visor, and with terror catching her heart for a moment, Lett saw the fury in his eyes, unmatched by any she had seen before.

_ Have I overstepped his patience? _

“You tread outside the bounds of the Measure.”

“The Measure asked me to tread outside the bounds of my oath. I have told you which comes first.”

“The Code of the Scourge tells you which should.”

Murmurs and whispers were rising up amongst the other spectators. Kaston stood, silent as a stone, at the Paravicar’s side.

“I have never sworn myself to that tenet. I am not a Hellknight first. I am first a paladin of Iomedae, and I dare not risk her wrath by contradicting that fact.”

“You claim to be a paladin.” Xaevir’s smile was knowing. “But that is an old legend, and unsubstantiated.”

“Unsubstantiated? You want me to provide proof?”

The Lictor’s smile was pure venom, now. “Yes.”

Lett removed her helmet, staring him directly in the eyes. “Do you even know what a paladin  _ does, _ Lictor?”

Xaevir blinked, and Lett realized suddenly that he didn’t, but the Paravicar spoke up at his side.

“She is an emissary of her god. She follows their teachings as a mystic might, and gains power like a mystic’s in return.”

“Thank you, Paravicar.” Xaevir’s eyes were cold. “So you have mystical power? Show me. Show me but a party trick, and I won’t have you court-martialed for insubordination.”

“Insubordination, sir?”

“You were told to give Armiger Zea’lai sixty lashes, and you did not.”

Lett slid her sword again from its sheath, murmuring perhaps the shortest, simplest prayer she knew:  _ Let the light of my blade reflect yours. _

The sword flared brilliant blue with flickers of gold, a color that some among the natives of Absalom Station would describe as the blue of the Starstone’s unfettered light.

“How am I to know this is not simply a solarian trick?”

“That light is different. Besides, I did not train in the way of a weapon.” Lett manifested her mote, folding it into armor that overlaid her black plate. It shimmered with the red light of an old star.

The Master of Blades, who had been silent, spoke up. “And what is to convince us that it is not technological? I see a battery case in the hilt of that sword.”

Lett pressed a button, ejecting the battery, tossing it to her biological hand in case he accused her of linking it to an integrated circuit. “The battery is for its rift-edge, sir, but if you are still unconvinced, I will grant it to your technicians for inspection. And to the Paravicar too, in fact.”

Xaevir looked expectantly at the commander of the Signifiers, who shrugged.

“It is magical in origin,” the Paravicar confirmed. “I know what you want me to say, sir, and it is not what you expect me to say.”

“What is she doing, then, Paravicar? Aloud, so everyone can hear.”

“Summoning an archon, sir,” Lett interjected before the Paravicar could speak. “A gift that I am granted by my goddess. And a mite more than a party trick, I might add.”

“Don’t interrupt your superiors.”

“She isn’t lying,” the Paravicar provided.

“Thank you, Paravicar,” Xaevir said acidly. “Scourgeknight Duma, you are dismissed for now. I will send for you shortly, but this situation does not need observers to resolve.”

“Yes, sir.” She bowed, saluted, and took two steps back before turning to go. She heard Xaevir dismiss Kaston behind her, and his footsteps follow, but she dared not turn back.

Her unstable legs carried her back to her room, and she took off her helmet, then her gauntlets, sliding open the storage compartment in her arm, drawing out the pair of holy symbols.

The Sword of Valor still hummed in her grasp, though less solidly than it once had. Tears of relief washed the bitterness from her face, and she slumped against the bed, murmuring a prayer of thanks.


	28. The Fight for Forgiveness

They went out again, but the atmosphere was no longer light. Kaston, Lett, and Hyetse sat evenly spaced around a hexagonal table, and one of Kaston’s eyes was glued to each of the others, filled with a quiet, smoldering anger.

The bartender set two flights of nox before them, eight glasses. For just a moment the bitterness in Kaston’s eyes polymorphed into hysteria, and then he downed two glasses in rapid succession.

The other customers, a smattering of Vesk, skittermanders, and individuals of other races, stared at them uneasily. The Hellknights didn’t have a pretty reputation here. Senya, Lett noticed, was pointedly ignoring them; Luck was explaining something in loud terms to Rhot, who lent her his full attention; Sparky was already drunk, as usual.

She waited for the Stormfalcon crew to finish their drinks and head back to their ship before picking up a glass.

_ I said never again _ , a small voice reminded her, but she sniffed and downed the drink, then another just to be sure. Her mind froze and began to blur, a sensation that had been unpleasant before but was welcome now as it distracted her from the thought of what Xaevir might do.

She remembered little. Snide comments were made, tables flipped and chairs thrown. They were asked to leave, and when Lett tried to heave a chair at the bartender, they were  _ dragged _

out by Hyetse and the Vesk bouncers.

Of all the things she had said all night, she remembered only fragments, but she remembered Xaevir’s summons clearly. He had reprimanded both of them: “Your reputation is the Order’s reputation, and you are doing the opposite of improving it.”

Lett had tried to draw her sword on him, only to remember that she’d given it to the Master of Blades earlier that day.

“Those who don’t fear justice will fear me,” Xaevir growled, quoting the Code of the Scourge. “A broken law is a broken vow, and penance must be paid in blood.”

What she’d said after that, though, she remembered clearly as a bell. “I fear justice, Lictor, and justice is not what you serve.”

Had she been sober, she might have considered that such a response would only make him angrier, but in the moment, clouded by the remnant of two glasses of nox, her filter was gone, and she spoke what she found to be the truth.

Xaevir assigned her fifty lashes, and Kaston twenty-five, in front of every available Hellknight on the Citadel. His were delivered by the Paravicar, and hers by the Master of Blades, and as before, Lett’s vision went black long before it was finished.

Once, a ceiling of colored light had greeted her upon awakening. Now, the ceiling was low-vaulted and black, that of one of the rooms of the Citadel’s medical bay. When she shifted, her back felt tight.

“You should have let me die.” It hadn’t been long. The nox was still there, still clouding her judgment.

“I would never.”

“Why not? Why do you pretend to care so much about me?” Her hands clenched into fists. “You got me into this mess, and then you did your best to keep me in it. Asking that I be promoted to Scourgeknight after abandoning me. Nearly convincing me to break my oath for the sake of my life. And now dragging me back from the edge of death.”

“Xaevir wanted to execute you,” Kaston said bluntly. “His word to Naomni was the only thing that kept him from assigning you twenty  _ more  _ lashes. I suspect that she didn’t hate you as much as you thought, though there’s no way to know now.”

Lett’s eyes grew dark, and she pushed herself up from the table where she lay. “Then I guess at least in death, she redeems herself, slightly. Why would she save me when I don’t want to be saved, though?”

“Because you do. You just haven’t realized it yet.”

“Don’t assume what I want.” Lett braced herself on the side of the table, letting her feet drop to the floor. “Don’t you dare. I know how these things go with you. You assume, and you overreact, and you leave me behind or you heal me or, Hell, you rape me.”

“Fine. You know what? It isn’t always about what you want. Sometimes it’s about what I want, or what someone else wants, because sometimes that’s what’s best for you. Sit down. You’ve lost too much blood to be standing. You’ll topple before you take a step.”

Contrarily, Lett put her foot forward, and as Kaston had predicted, she tumbled forward, blacking out momentarily, finding herself back on the table.

“Well.” Her voice was bitter, sardonic. “Since I’m clearly at your disposal, since this is about what  _ you _ want, Paralictor, what is it that you want?”

“I need to stitch you up again and heal you as best as I can. There’s little time to waste; the Stormfalcon crew called while you were sulking. It’s like the Paravicar thought; they found the symbol of the Order of the Crux. They’re raiding the place tomorrow. And of fucking course we’re the ones assigned to help them despite being down an Armiger and despite your injury. Xaevir seems to think it’s hilarious.”

“I don’t even get it. That many lashes should have killed me anyways.”

Kaston reached up to his chest, tapping the medallion that hung there, and Lett’s blood froze, remembering. She had tucked the Mark of the Unswerving that Dr. Narl had given her beneath her skinsuit so it would never be seen, but now she was naked, and it was missing.

“I have it,” he said briefly. “I don’t know who gave it to you in the first place, but if they were a qualified officer—which they must have been or it wouldn’t have functioned—then I have no place to question it. Xaevir, though, might not appreciate you wearing the trinkets of another Order. I’ll hold onto it for now. Don’t do anything stupid in the meantime.”

“Again. Why do you care if I do?”

Kaston’s eyes fixed on her, studying her face, as if calculating a reaction to what he was about to say.

“Because I love you.” His voice was soft, sincere. She saw the worry lines, the bags beneath his eyes. “And… Gods, I just don’t know how to express it. I’m bad at love. Where I came from, there’s no such thing, except as a euphemism for sex.”

“Where could you have come from that love doesn’t exist?”

Kaston’s eyes darkened, knowing he had said too much, and he turned away.

“Kaston,” Lett pleaded, “I love you, too. I don’t want to see you in pain. Please. You can tell me.”

“Strictly speaking? The planet Embroi. It’s a beautiful place. Mountains and seas, and the way the light filters through the atmosphere, it turns the waters violet. It distracts most people from the horror beneath. Get your rest, Scarlett. You’ll need it for the mission.” He tucked himself through the door, closing it behind him, and she heard the lock click.

Once he was gone, she took a deep breath, intending to draw up her healing energy, but she couldn’t reach it. She opened her wrist compartment, spilling out the holy symbols again. The Eye of Aroden still felt normal, but the Sword of Valor was faint under her fingers, flickering angrily.

“Shit,” she murmured. “Yeah, that wasn’t exactly the epitome of  _ shine in her legion. _ ”

Searching the room, she found that her weapons had been confiscated, of course, but her datapad was still there, set atop her folded skinsuit on a table next to the bed. She lifted it out, accessing the Citadel’s drive, searching for information about Embroi. The information she found was sparse, mostly discussing its native people’s strict society and its orchid waters. But at the bottom, there was one line scrawled in Infernal, alone, just a few words.

_ Governed by Occhiorasoi, as confirmed by Paralictor Drayne. What does she want with it? _

She didn’t recognize the name, so she searched for it as well. The data on Occhiorasoi was entirely coded in Infernal, and she picked through it slowly, translating, pulling out the most important notes.

_ Female Malebranche, governor of the planet Embroi… Great contributor to Hell’s designs… Was tasked sometime before the Gap with the conversion of the unbound children of House Thrune. _

The last phrase linked to another file, listing names and statuses. All but two were ‘captive’ or ‘converted,’ in white and red, respectively. The last two, though, were labeled with unique statuses.

_ Abrogail VII Iravine – Unknown _ (in blue)

_ Kaston Drayne – Converted; missing _ (in purple). A note read,  _ As far as Occhiorasoi knows, anyways. _

Lett’s hands tightened around the datapad, searching for anything she could find about House Thrune. This information was sparse, mostly marked as unreliable after the Gap, but a few things were certain. They were a noble house from Golarion whose pacts with Hell had helped them rise to power, and while the crown that was a mark of those pacts had been recorded as existing since, it was now missing.

With a frown, she closed the tabs and let herself drift off to sleep. She dreamt of the purple seas of a planet she had never seen, and beneath them, a lurking infernal underworld.


	29. Infernal Machinations

“It’s a summoning pentagram, all right.” Kaston joined the rest of them. “Don’t touch it. It’s broken, unbound, which makes it extremely dangerous.”

“Something’s missing, isn’t it?” Senya wondered.

“I’m surprised you noticed. But yes, several somethings. All of the runes intended to transfer a devil’s body from Hell to the Material Plane, as though this would call only its soul. What sort of devil would answer such a call is beyond me.”

Sparky’s nose twitched, then his tail, and he raised a paw to point towards the door.

“Maybe that sort?” he suggested. Framed in it was a strange droid with Infernal runes etched carefully on its chest plate, the size and shape of an imp, smelling faintly of brimstone. With a quiet pop, it turned invisible, and Kaston’s hand went immediately to his scourge, his mask tracking where it had gone. He chased it across the room, lashing it to the ground as it tried to take flight, and it spat a curse at him with all the venom of the real thing. He muttered a spell, and the glow disappeared from its eyes, the summoning circle flaring briefly.

“I see now.” His eyes narrowed. “A devil’s soul in a shell built to hold it. Perhaps the Order of the Crux  _ is _ involved. I don’t know who else would be fool enough to try it.”

Lett peered down the hallway from which it had come. “It’s too much to hope that there’s nothing bigger in there, isn’t it?”

“Considering the mission was to check it out, it’s up to us to stop it, even if there is.” Kaston walked through the doorway, beckoning everyone else. “Senya, watch for more of those laser traps.”

The mechanic rolled her eyes. “Whatever you say, Lord Commander.”

Still, she dismantled a few, as well as two security cameras, as they walked down the hallway, pointing her antennae and sending a targeted pulse which usually resulted in a shower of sparks.

At the hallway’s end was a larger room, blocked off by a trench, over which a cluster of five more cyber-imps flew easily.

“Where’d he go?” Luck wondered as the one she’d tried to hit vanished.

“Invisible,” Kaston said, entangling another with his scourge, and pointing above Luck’s head. “Swing upward.”

“Aye aye Captain,” the soldier said mockingly, and swung her whip. It flickered with holy light, and the robotic imp exploded. Lett tracked down another that had turned invisible with her sensors; Senya followed it with her computerized eye; Sparky traced the magical signal, and they brought it down easily while Rhot blocked the other three from the doorway with his huge form, swinging with his solar lance and occasionally catching some reflection off of one of their outlines.

Once those were dispatched, they stepped further into the room. Luck’s flashlight gleamed off of a larger, more humanoid form with wings, for just a brief moment before the thing awoke and a blast of psychic energy snaked from it. Kaston managed, barely, to maintain control of himself, but Luck, Lett, and Senya were not so strong-willed; they were teleported to the thing’s side in the blink of an eye.

Within a few moments, Senya was free, trapped on the other side of another cluster of imps, shooting at their captor from a corner she’d retreated into. Lett broke free, and took out three imps in a swipe. Luck, though, was still compelled, turned against her allies with a weapon that would have been much stronger against the devil-constructs.

Kaston swept aside the last of the imps, and Luck struck him, her vinelike whip corroding little holes in his armor, chewing away at his skin. The lashunta’s eyes were fixed on him absently; he shook off her gaze and went for the android instead. It crumpled, and the compulsion thankfully broke, and Luck frowned at him.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine. Why do you ask?”

“You looked like you were taking extra damage from my holy whip.”

Kaston shook his head. “The armor doesn’t like it, that’s all.”

They searched the place. Senya found a datapad, and after hacking into it, found that contained details on the cyber-devils, from usage data to the notes on the complex binding rituals. The home screen bore the name and personal sign of the undead Lictor of the Order of the Crux, and while the Stormfalcon Crew cleaned the warehouse of useful supplies, Lett approached Kaston alone, and they spoke in hushed tones on the other side of the room.

“You didn’t tell me you were a noble.”

Kaston tensed. “Who did?”

“I looked up Embroi. Then Occhiorasoi, because she’s the only useful thread I came up with from the planet itself. You used to be a slave there?”

“This isn’t the place or the time to explain my personal and family history to you, Scarlett.”

“Why not? The rest of them seem plenty occupied with looting the building.”

Kaston lifted off his helmet, silencing the sensors that relayed information back to the Lictor. In the dark, the red streaks in his hair seemed to be glowing. Then she realized that they  _ were _ glowing, only faintly, like magma that was nearly cooled.

“House Thrune was relegated to Embroi because we started to go rogue. The Embri enforce societal expectations to an extreme. To a fault, most would say. A self-respecting Embri that fails to fulfill its duty arranges to be replaced and kills itself. We were visitors on their planet, expected to comply with their laws. So no. We weren’t slaves. We were members of society, on the surface. And beneath the surface, we were less than slaves. Most were objects, raised to be sacrificed. I, though, was the second heir. That meant I was protected.” He spat the word. “That meant I was supposed to become a devil myself, supposed to serve my sister. My queen. Of course, she knew that no contract bound us. She knew that if she declared herself free, there was nothing they could do but try to control her using her crown. I wouldn’t have to become a devil to serve her. She wasn’t supposed to know that, but she stole the crown, and we ran away.”

Lett lifted a hand to Kaston’s hair, and he batted it away.

“Those streaks,” she wondered. “Those aren’t dyed?”

“No. And neither do they take dye. They’re my horns, a mark that I’m worthy of tampering with the powers of Hell. To those who recognize them, they say that I am a loyal subject to my queen.”

“Does it hurt if I touch them?”

“It doesn’t hurt me.”

Lett reached for the streak again and ran her hand over it. It was like passing through an open flame, but when she pulled her hand away, it wasn’t burned. Her skin wasn’t even hot, but where she had touched, it throbbed with pain.

“Doesn’t it hurt to have those growing out of your head?”

“It’s nothing to the pain of having them grow out of your whole body.”

Lett met his eyes. It was still strange to her that he was the shorter of them. But he gazed into hers in return, and she saw something glimmer in them, like a tear that wasn’t allowed to fall. Silently, she wrapped her arms around him in an awkward, armored hug.

“You’re allowed to say when you’re hurting.”

“Not to anyone else.”

“We’re going, lovebirds. There’s a room for you on the ship,” Senya goaded, waving at them from across the room. “Rhot doesn’t mind sharing.”

With a sigh, Kaston sealed his helmet back on, and Lett followed suit, and they traipsed out of the warehouse to report what they had learned.


	30. Still and Silent

He tried to force the memories back, but Lett’s comment had turned his attention to them once again.

_ The dizzying sensation spit them out upon a sheet of black metal grating, and Kaston whimpered, recognizing the infernal engines all around them. Abbey had fallen on her back at his side; the impact had thrown her onto the crown, and one of its points pierced the skin of her back. She struggled to her feet, and with a shattering screech, their captor joined them, and abruptly Kaston realized that the three of them now occupied a pentacle etched permanently into the floor. _

_ Abbey must have noticed it, too. Her eyes widened, hopeful, likely thinking what he was. There were no pentacles in Hell. They weren’t needed. Every devil knew its place, and wouldn’t dare tread elsewhere. _

_ A bewildered-looking, but human, figure in red-and-black robes stood by as another in spiked armor focused his fire on their captor, banishing it in a cloud of sulfurous smoke that made Abbey cough. Kaston breathed it as oxygen and wondered what was wrong with him, until he was distracted by the gun pointed at his face, and by Abbey, jumping in front of him. _

_ “Don’t!” _

_ Frowning, the figure kept his gun trained on Kaston. If he shot, it would strike her in the heart. _

_ “Please. Please don’t hurt him. He’s my brother.” _

_ Kaston snarled at the man in armor, and Abbey wrapped her arms around him protectively. Neither of the people outside the pentacle made a move. _

_ “Who are you?” the robed one demanded with a quiet, lurking authority. _

_ “I am called Abrogail.” Abbey drew herself up to her full height. “And he’s Kaston.” _

_ The robed one stared between them appraisingly. “As in… Abrogail what? Do you have a last name?” _

_ Abbey’s eyes hardened. “I think you know it already. But yes. Abrogail Thrune, the seventh.” _

_ The two figures exchanged glances, or at least, Kaston thought they did, though it was an impressive feat, with one in a full visor and one in a mask, both decorated in shifting holograms. _

_ “Break the circle,” the robed one said. _

_ “What about the hellhound?” _

_ Kaston tensed, growling lowly, and paced nervously around the pentacle’s edge, apparently bound in by it. _

_ “I think we can handle it, if it moves to hurt us.” _

_ Abbey edged protectively toward Kaston again, and the robed one knelt down and lifted a section of silver piping from the pentacle. Kaston emerged quickly, but she replaced it before Abbey could step out. _

_ “We can deal with him easily enough,” said the figure, gesturing at Kaston. “But if you’re some sort of trickery, I can’t risk letting you leave.” _

_ With an indignant glare, Abbey stepped over the boundary, and the robed figure breathed a nearly inaudible sigh of relief. _

_ “Now it’s your turn,” Abbey said. “Who exactly are you?” _

_ The robed figure lifted its mask briefly, and Kaston caught a glimpse of a woman with dark hair, olive skin, and brown eyes flecked with green. “Estasia Iveren, Signifier of the Order of the Scourge.” _

_ “And you?” _

_ The armored looked to the Signifier, and she nodded. He lifted off his helmet; his hair was ashen blonde, but his eyes were the same black as his plate. “Chaen Xaevir. Armiger of the Order of the Scourge, if you hadn’t gathered.” _

_ “Hellknights, then.” Abbey glanced apprehensively at the two of them. “Well, I imagine you got more than you bargained for, Signifier.” _

_ “Quite.” Iveren’s mouth was visible beneath the mask, curled into a frown. “What am I supposed to tell the Paralictor?” _

He breathed slowly, forcing back the impulse to let every bone in his body shatter. He tried to think of the passage of his test, but somehow, he couldn’t pull it up. Instead his mind went to Lett wrapping her arms around him in the warehouse.

_ Really? That’s the best you can come up with? _

“It’s better than the feeling of a petty victory anyways,” Kaston said to the devil on his shoulder. “That victory meant I was feared. This, though… this means I’m so much more than feared. I’m loved. I’m cared for.”

And to that, the devil on his shoulder had nothing to say.

A bell-tone at his door startled him out of his thoughts. Lett stood there, shifting uncomfortably in her armor. She met his eyes, then glanced at the floor again.

“I didn’t say this. But I’m sorry,” she said. “For a couple of nights ago. I should never be allowed to drink anything.”

He smirked. “You can’t build up a tolerance to a poison you never sample. Why do you think it takes me five glasses?”

Lett tried to hide the amused smile playing on her lips, but Kaston’s eyes gravitated to it. “Regardless, I think I’ll be going for something a little lighter next time.”

She shifted again, and he frowned. “Do you want to come in and sit down? Are you alright?”

“Fifty lashes are a lot to take. I know you stitched me up, but the scabs are still cracking. I’ll be fine.”

“Come and sit,” Kaston said, and she hesitated, and he added, “If I need to make that an order, Scarlett, I will.”

She walked through the door and settled herself on one of the padded sofas surrounding what appeared to be a firepit, though it was sealed off with heavy voidglass and shone with the light of the Citadel’s power core. As a Paralictor, Kaston was given furniture besides a bed and end table.

He returned, setting a glass by her side. The reddish light of the core made it look clearer than it was, but she realized it was cranberry juice.

“May I look at your wounds?”

She set the glass aside and nodded, unfastening her shoulder armor and her breastplate and backplate, then peeling down her carbon-skin gambeson so that the scabs, some burned and some clotted, were exposed.

Kaston ran a finger over one of them from end to end. It tingled, and Lett realized that he was healing her.

“Why didn’t you start on these with your paladin skills?” he wondered.

She took a deep breath, trying to decide how to answer, and finally settled on, “Drunken brawls that result in public reprimand aren’t exactly within the bounds of my oath. Nor is insubordination.”

“So you’re asked to suffer the scars of that punishment, or what?”

“No. I mean, yes, in this case, but not explicitly. It’s… well, Iomedae gave me a fragment of her power because I swore I would follow her tenets. If I break them…” She waved a hand, making a  _ poof _ gesture. “I’ve been an idiot lately.”

Kaston’s eyes widened, realizing that part of the blame fell to him. “Is it gone for good?”

Lett shook her head. “I can make reparations. But I need to do that in a temple or with a priest, and while some of those on this Citadel may be followers of Iomedae, they likely don’t have the influence to convince her to listen to me.”

He placed his hands flat on her back, and his odd red-tinged energy flowed into her, sealing some of the scars. A network of pale lines crossed her skin, and he was reminded, just for a moment, of Abbey. His hands dropped, and the streaks in his hair flared red-hot. He bit his tongue, but still emitted a whimper, and Lett whirled, jumping over the couch to catch him as he crumpled. She ran her hands over his streaks—his horns—flinching slightly at the heat, at the burn, hoping that as before, they wouldn’t actually scald her skin. His eyes squeezed shut.

“Are you okay?” she asked frantically. “Do I need to call a medic, or the Paravicar?”

He took a shaking breath. It sounded as though he was trying to inhale fire; the breath came in spurts broken by tiny expressions of pain.

“Please don’t,” he said. “Well. Maybe the Paravicar. But only she and Xaevir know…” He broke off, shouting. It sounded inhuman. His hands started to curl, and he cried out, and not knowing what to do, Lett held his head in her lap. Tears streamed from his eyes, and she wiped them away, stroking his cheek softly although her own heartbeat was running away at the speed of sound.

He curled up into the fetal position, emitting a shrill scream, and she gathered him in her arms, and gathered her fear of losing him into one place, a place close to her heart, and she whispered, “Gods, Kaston, please don’t die. I love you. I don’t want to live without you.” Then a sniffle, and in Chelaxian, “If I betray my heart, I have died.”

Her very voice reminded him of Abbey, and he thought of his sister holding him so many years ago, gathering him into her arms and singing lullabies, pressing her face into his fur while her tears evaporated from the heat.

And slowly, his hands uncurled, and the heat lightened, and he opened his eyes to meet Lett’s troubled ones.

Paravicar Iveren’s voice echoed in his head, a leftover from so long ago.

_ “You said he was recently transformed, Abrogail? How recently?” _

_ “I don’t know. I don’t know if time is different on Embroi. Days, maybe a week.” _

_ He whimpered, tail between his legs, remembering the snapping and melting of his bones. _

_ “Perhaps you can reverse it. I’m afraid I don’t know him well, but you’re familiar with the sorts of things that comfort him.” _

_ Abbey’s brow furrowed. “Comfort? No. We’ve never had the luxury.” _

Lett bent over him, and some part of him that was still a hellhound scented something on her breath, some sort of longing, as her lips met his. She kissed him lightly, once, and then harder, folding herself against him, until she saw his eyes respond to hers and came up for air. He brushed a lock of her hair out of her face, behind her ear, and his fingers burned as though laced with capsaicin. She inhaled sharply, and her eyelashes fluttered, and daringly, he lifted up his hand and brushed her chest. Only her carbonskin sat between it and his hand, and he saw her nipple perk beneath it.

“Is that okay?” he wondered, and she nodded, working her mechanical hand into his hair, gently massaging his skull, braced over him on her other three limbs. He reached up, wrapped his arms around her, and let her collapse onto him, tracing his fingers over the lines of her scars now by touch, feeling the rise and fall of her body with every breath.

She felt him grow hard, and a lump of doubt grew in her throat, but she forced it down, shifting herself against him, reaching her left hand, the biological one, beneath his robe, her fingers climbing up his leg uncertainly. 

Minutes later, he relaxed, stilled by exhaustion, for some reason blinking back tears, and she nearly fell asleep on his chest before he nudged her awake and she shifted off of him and he went to change and clean himself up. She washed her hands, and the scalding sensation faded a little, and when he stepped from the shower she was sitting back on the couch, her armor clipped back on except for her helmet and gauntlets, staring at her hands.

She didn’t acknowledge him for a few minutes, but she knew he was there, certainly, because she said, “I want you to imagine… and not because I hate you, I don’t, I love you, a lot… I want you to imagine what it’s like to be unable to feel what you just felt. How do you describe that?”

Kaston sat next to her, shifting the cushion down so that she spilled toward him. “Frustrating?”

She closed her eyes, but a tear betrayed her, sneaking out the corner. “That’s a good word for it. Frustrating. I… before, you know, my augmentations. You were my first, and my only, before that part of me was replaced with this… construct. Sure, there are nerve endings there, but… well, Jenovere didn’t exactly go to great details… it’s just sensation. Pressure, heat, stretch, vibration. Like you’d have in your hands, or your face. Something’s missing, though, I guess. Something must be. Other people seem to like sex, but there’s nothing there for me. I only tried it once, with you, and I didn’t even finish. I’ve never known what that feels like, and I never will. I didn’t like it then, so I shouldn’t want to try again, but somehow being unable makes me want it more than I want anything else. I guess I could have it fixed.” She snorted. “Senya offered, back on Castrovel, and I said no. I don’t want to know what it would cost.” Her eyes flitted to him. “Does it make you happy?”

Kaston frowned. “I’m not sure if  _ happy _ is the right word. Tired? But in a good way. Tired because you’ve been working all day, or fighting.”

“Like the way it feels to wake up hours after a battle?”

Kaston nodded. “Probably. Let’s go with that. It feels like that.”

Lett smiled, and it seemed mostly genuine, but there was a note of bitterness in her gaze that sprouted tears of pity in Kaston’s eyes.

“I’ll have to settle for making you feel that way, then,” she decided.

Kaston wrapped an arm around her shoulder gently, and she returned the gesture forcefully, like a storm within her own body, fitting close to him, deciding where the lightning would strike. That tension, the charge between them, persisted for a few moments, and he could practically smell the ozone, and then she broke it with a quiet question.

“If you could have anything back, anything that was taken from you…”

“My sister.” He said it almost without thinking, and Lett’s eyebrows scrunched.

“I thought you’d said you were supposed to be her servant.”

“I was. But I wasn’t having it, and neither was she. She… cared about me like our mother never did. She got us out of Hell and off of Embroi, and I never had the chance to thank her.”

Lett frowned. “She died?”

“Years ago. Before I ever knew you. Years, and I can’t manage to forget her.”

“I’m sorry.” Lett shook her head. “I’ve never lost a sibling. Not really. I can’t understand, but I can provide a listening ear.”

Kaston considered her. “I’ve never lost part of my body, so I suppose I can’t understand that. If you listen to me grumble about Abbey, the least you deserve is to have me listen while you grumble about your experience…” He trailed off for a moment, meeting her eyes, and he saw that the hunger in them hadn’t all faded. It sparked an idea. “Scarlett, I… if there was a way that I could allow you to feel that… that tiredness, that release… would you want that?”

“Yes,” she said, too quickly, and then flushed bright red. “Gods, I know it’s probably wrong. Especially coming from you—from a man to a woman. But yes. Please.”

She hung on his gaze for a moment, and he conjured up those moments, moments of climax, of vibration, of exhilaration becoming exhaustion, and brushed a hand to her temple. She moaned, and he kissed her, and she murmured, “Thank you,” before drifting into sleep on his couch.

Kaston took the blankets from his bed and used them to cover her, sleeping with only his cloak for warmth, and in his dream, the memory returned.

_ “You never even comforted each other?” _

_ “I guess we did.” Abbey put her arms around Kaston, not flinching from the touch. “I held him. I sang him to sleep when he was younger. I still do sometimes.” She took a deep breath, singing quietly in a dialect older than the Pact. The burn from his fur intensified, and it glowed like embers, as his hackles raised, but she held him. Firmly, but not too tightly. She petted his head, running her hands down his back, and he whimpered. Still she kept on, until he bowled over, howling weakly in pain. _

_ The door crashed open, and another fully-armored figure, in plate much more ornate than Xaevir’s, with a cape, entered the room. “What in Hell’s name is going on, Signifier Iveren?” _

_ “It happens, Paralictor, that the devil I summoned for Armiger Xaevir’s test carried baggage. He has, however, passed.” _

_ The Paralictor stared at Abbey and Kaston. “And by baggage, you mean what, an escaped slave and her pet hellhound?” _

_ “By baggage, I mean a woman who is free under Hell’s own laws, and her brother, whose soul was twisted before they managed to escape.” _

_ The Paralictor stood in stunned silence for a moment, and then said, “If they came from your summoning, Iveren, they are your responsibility. Report to me if anything goes wrong, and don’t breathe a word to anyone else.” _

_ “You won’t tell the Lictor?” _

_ “Lictor Ernevir would have them both killed on the spot, and you know it. He strays farther from true Scourge ideals than Aucturn from Sarenrae’s Heart.” The Paralictor strode out the door. His presence, though, had riled Kaston, who let loose a long, deep, vibrato howl. Abbey buried her face in his fur, eyes closed against its burning touch, hiding her tears as she sang shakily. _

_ “I know it’s bad,” she said once the song was finished, in heavily dialectic Infernal. “But it will get better, Kaston. Everything will get better. Everything is getting better already. Just look at us. We’re out of Hell. We’re off Embroi.” _

_ He heard her, and he calmed, and his howls faded, then escalated again to a worrying volume, and the shape of the hound compacted, and his howls turned to screams as his shape was replaced once again with that of a young man. His eyes were squeezed shut, and his hair matted with blood in two long streaks along his skull. He was naked, which was no surprise; his ragged clothing had torn off of him when he had changed shapes. Signifier Iveren unfastened her robe, revealing her own set of black plate beneath, and offered it to him, and he wrapped it around himself shakily, not bothering with the arm holes, trying not to touch it to his wounds. _

_ “Why don’t the two of you come to my quarters,” she said, “and you can get cleaned up while I officialize Xaevir’s passage of the test.” _

_ Abbey offered a hand, and Kaston took it, and with a gasp, he let her pull him to his feet, following mutely, his head still ringing from the pain. _


	31. Dark Matters

Kaston reported to the tallest spire on the Citadel, which housed the suites and offices of the commanding officers. He chased through the winding hallways with purpose, saluted by his lesser, until he came to one of the few doors. He didn’t need to read the sign posted at its side, but he did anyways.

_ Estasia Iveren _

_ Paravicar _

Taking a deep breath, he raised his hand and pressed the call button by her door. She opened it promptly. She was seated across the room at her desk, and she turned over some sort of puzzle box in her hands.

“Paralictor.” She greeted him by rank; she always did. She rarely spoke his name, as though even his first and middle names were an object of reverence, or maybe she just wanted to forget his last. “What brings you?”

“Information.” He set something in front of her—a datapad encoded entirely in a language that neither of them knew. “About this Aeon Throne crisis. Armiger Zea’lai’s datapad. I had Scourgeknight Duma translate it. She speaks and reads some Azlanti. I think I know what they’re planning next.”

He showed her, bringing up his own datapad, with a translation Lett had pieced together on it.

“Aucturn? Is she sure of the translation?”

Kaston nodded. “Yes, Paravicar Iveren. I acknowledge that that’s strange; that’s why I mention it.”

“What could motivate the Aeon Guard to convene on Aucturn?”

“I don’t know, Paravicar.”

“It was a rhetorical question. You are dismissed, Paralictor Drayne. Expect to hear from me shortly. Oh, and Xaevir is finished inspecting Scourgeknight Duma’s sword. He wasn’t happy with the results, of course. I tried to warn him. You may take it.”

He nodded and turned to go, collecting the blade as she held it out to him. Iveren’s green-flecked eyes followed him out beneath her ornate mask. He hated meeting with the Paravicar in person. It reminded him of the day she had informed him of Abbey’s death.

_ It’s best not to dwell on such things. _

The voice startled him. It didn’t belong to the devil on his shoulder. It was gentler, but still firm, unyielding. He thought it was Lett, but the accent was Chelaxian. He considered that it might be Abbey, but her voice was more commanding.

“I really am going crazy now,” he murmured to himself.

Shaking his head, he climbed down stairs all the way to Lett’s quarters, pinging for her rather than granting himself access. She came to the door, waving him in wordlessly, and he held the sword out to her. She took it almost tentatively, relaxing when nothing happened.

“Your meeting with the Paravicar went well, then?” she asked.

Kaston took a deep breath. “As well as it could have gone. Having Paravicar Iveren as my immediate superior again just brings up… ill memories.”

“Of your sister?”

Kaston startled, remembering he had told Lett, fleetingly, of Abbey. “In part. Of my own Armiger training, as well.”

Lett tilted her head, and her recently-cut hair shifted out to one side, like she was an animal turning its ear to him. “I can’t imagine you as an Armiger.”

“I wasn’t one for long. It was mostly a formality. But Abbey died before we finished training. She…” His voice broke.

“You don’t have to tell me.”

He shook his head, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I don’t have to, no. I want to. I want someone else to know. Someone who will care, the way Xaevir and Iveren don’t.”

“Then tell me at your own pace. Don’t force it.”

“She stole the crown from its keepers in Hell, or so they said. But it was hers. She was the heir by blood if not yet the ruler by oath. The Crown of Infernal Majesty is tied to our House. It could be used by another human, but not by a devil. It’s forged of silver.” He shook his head. “She took it, but she took it too late. Occhiorasoi was on to us. One of her underlings found us as we tried to escape through a portal. She hid—I asked her to hide. I was beaten bloody, my bones broken. I was inches from death, but Occhiorasoi’s servant wouldn’t have allowed us the satisfaction. I… I said I was supposed to become a devil to serve Abbey?” He took a shaky breath, and Lett nodded. “I did. It reformed me in the shape of a hellhound. I was a stranger in my own body, and she revealed herself trying to save me. I thought all was lost, but a summons was sent and by chance or by fate or perhaps by proximity to the portal, the servant was pulled, and us with it. Here, to Citadel Demain, by Paravicar Iveren. Then, she was the Signifier in command of a group of Armigers, the first of which to test was Xaevir. She knew Abbey was the heir, but not that she had the crown. She offered to take us as Armigers also. A week in…” He broke off. His voice would carry him no farther. He stared into Lett’s eyes, and his gaze chilled her. “I don’t have the words. Can I show you instead?”

“Show me?”

“What I remember.”

“Will it hurt?”

“Only until you realize that the pain isn’t yours.”

Her mouth tightened, and she nodded. “Show me.”

He reached up, and his fingers brushed her temples again, and she drifted into his mind.

_ “Are you alright?” Kaston wondered, facing his sister worriedly. “You’re pale.” _

_ Abbey nodded, swallowing something. As she did, though, she toppled. Kaston caught her so that her head didn’t hit the ground, and realized that blood soaked the back of her robe. Terrified, he lifted her head off of his knees and turned her over, searching the room for anything that could be a medical kit. He found one, peeled the cloth off her back, and realized that there were three deep punctures, evenly spaced. He frowned, wondering what they could have come from, and then he realized: the crown. She’d fallen on it when they had first come out, and the cuts hadn’t been treated. She wore it wrapped around her thigh, now; it made a slight indentation beneath her robe. _

_ He selected a salve that had been used on him, which stung the cuts on his own fingers, and applied it to the wounds, focusing on the task. Eventually he realized that Signifier Iveren stood over him, watching as a faintly reddish-tinged energy seeped from his fingers. _

_ “Have you always been able to do that?” she wondered. _

_ “I don’t remember, Signifier.” Her mask was on, but he could feel her gaze through it. He didn’t appreciate the attention; on Embroi, attention meant you were in trouble. “Or, rather, as long as I can remember, I’ve been able to.” _

_ “Why is it red?” Iveren summoned a few threads of her own mystical healing; they danced around her palms, glowing bright gold. “Do you mind if I help?” _

_ “I would prefer it.” And then, hastily, “Signifier.” _

_ “No one else is around. You don’t need to be so formal.” Iveren placed her hands on Abbey’s back, and beneath her hands, Kaston’s sister shifted and rose back to consciousness. _

Kaston drew his hands away, and troubled, Lett kept eye contact.

“Why that? She lived through that.”

“It was infected,” Kaston said, and his voice cracked in the middle of the sentence. He touched his hands once more before Lett could breathe, and she slipped under again.

_ In the next room, a screech echoed, the sound of tearing metal. One of the other Armigers screamed, and Iveren scrambled to her feet, motioning for Kaston to follow. He did, but glanced back at Abbey, concerned. She had crumpled again, and she still wasn’t conscious. The infection was getting worse. _

_ Two of the other Armigers were also unconscious on the floor when they arrived, and the thing that had torn its way into the room turned on another where he cowered in a corner. Iveren began murmuring a spell, and it turned towards them, focusing on Kaston. _

_ “You,” Occhiorasoi snarled, stepping toward him. “Where is your sister?” _

_ He stared defiantly into her eyes. “You could care less about her. I know what you want.” _

_ “Yes. You do. I want the crown. I order you to give me the crown, Kaston Dr—” Her eyes went wide as chains of golden light wrapped her. _

_ “Leave,” Iveren intoned, then, glancing at Kaston, “Do you know her name?” _

_ His mouth went dry. “I wouldn’t dare to speak it.” _

_ “Speak it under my protection.” _

_ “Do you know who she is?” _

_ “That is an order, Armiger Drayne.” _

_ With terror racking every bone in his body, Kaston looked up into her eyes. “Occhiorasoi,” he said flatly, and the chains tightened. _

_ “You are banished,” Iveren said in Infernal. “Do not return here. I will be waiting.” _

_ “I’ll come back for him, and for Abrogail, and for the Crown,” the Malebranche promised, showing her teeth. “I’ll send others. Their betrayal will be punished.” _

_ “Then it will be your forces against ours. For how long have you been raising your army, Occhiorasoi? I tell you thrice, be gone.” _

_ With a scowl, Occhiorasoi vanished, flooding the room with the scent of sulfur and leaving Iveren’s magical chains to jangle to the floor. Kaston forced himself to stay in place until Iveren gave her word for him to go to Abbey, and then he ran to her side. Her blood pooled across the floor, and her eyes were blank. Kaston bent over her, trying to heal her, but his hands did nothing. Tears bloomed across his vision, turning everything into a blur of black and red and a few faint twists of orange, blue, violet, green. The pale gold of Iveren’s healing touch contributed for a few moments, and he brushed her hand away. The hems of his robes drank up Abbey’s blood, but he didn’t care. He bowed over her, tears dripping onto her chest. The burning streaks in his hair flared up hotter than ever. _

Lett finally had the chance to take her breath. Troubled, she broke her gaze, closing her eyes.

“I said I could never understand how it felt to lose a sister,” she said. “And I can’t. But even the taste of how you felt…”

“I know.” He flicked his hands, and the light around them dimmed. He wrapped them around Lett carefully. “Do you want me to stop? I can stop.”

“Do you want to stop?”

“I would rather have it all out. All off my chest.”

Lett nodded once, then met his eyes again.

_ He rose and threaded his way through the Citadel, answering Iveren’s summons. He raised his hand to press the call button beside her door, and it slid open before he could. Beside Iveren was a man in a hooded bodysuit, mostly plain black but decorated by a few spirals of silver embroidery. He raised his head upon seeing Kaston, but didn’t lower his hood. _

_ “I take it you are Signifier Thrune?” _

_ “I usually go by Drayne. People don’t need to know my connection to a damned House or a lost land.” _

_ The man chuckled, or so Kaston guessed; it was more like a sighing breath. “I apologize. I realize you are still grieving. I forget that we are not all so connected to death. My name is Feng. I am a cleric of Pharasma.” _

_ “A cleric? I thought that was a brand of mysticism lost to time.” _

_ “In any other church, perhaps. Little is lost in the Church of Pharasma. She governs life and death. But I am not here to discuss my personal motivations. I am here to bring a message from your sister.” _

_ “It’s been months.” _

_ “Yes. She needed time to work her way into the Lady’s good graces.” _

_ “Time? You mean…” _

_ Feng spoke the words as Kaston thought them. “Abrogail Thrune the Seventh is not in Hell. She remains in the Boneyard. I cannot say how long she will be able to stay there, but the crown is with her. Your friends from Embroi cannot reach her. She and the Lady have come to an agreement.” _

Kaston pulled his fingers back from Lett’s temples again, but the rest of the memory played in his mind.

_ “As long as neither the Boneyard nor the other souls within come to harm, Abrogail may remain there, postponing her judgment, harboring the crown. She urges you to come for it when you are ready. The queen is dead, after all.” A silent, pale smile curved Feng’s lips. “Long live the king. If you need to reach me, or her, I’ll leave you with this.” He drew out a small rectangle, about an inch and a half on the short edge, and three on the long, a thin sheet of metal. On one side, it was silver; on the other, it was matte black. The black side exhibited a rose in gloss finish; the silver side was plain. “Call my name and it will tell you how to find me.” _

_ “Your name?” _

_ “Just Feng.” The rectangle, which Kaston realized was some sort of calling card, illuminated in white light on its silver side, showing a few short words: “Xiaoyiu Feng, Cleric of Pharasma, Scion of the Boneyard. I’m right in front of you, dumbass.” _

_ Kaston glanced up, eyes narrowing, and he saw the faintest of smiles flicker across Feng’s mouth. The cleric rose and left the room, but Iveren remained, and so did Kaston, watching her, waiting. Her eyebrows perked after a moment, and her hand clasped to her mouth. “Oh! Sorry, Signifier. You’re dismissed. I know you have lots to get back to.” _

_ “Thank you, Paralictor.” He said nothing else, though her green eyes chased him out of the room, and he suspected she had wanted him to. _

“There was more to that,” Lett guessed.

“Some things, I’m not ready to speak of.”

“That’s fair.”

They were both silent, neither sure what to say. Finally, Lett lifted a personal comm device from her bedside table, pulling up a message and holding it out to Kaston. His eyes scanned it. It was the most recent in a thread, it seemed.

_ Sender: Liam Duma | Date: 1637 PM, 04 Sarenith, AG 322 | Subject: Atonement _

_ Given that, I don’t think it should be too much trouble. I don’t know the ritual—it’s not really done anymore—but I know Mihaluín does. Let me know the next time you’re headed to the Station. In the meantime, I’d look over the life of your namesake. Her story is as good a place to start as any when you seek atonement. _

“He shares your last name.” Kaston frowned. “Is he a relative?”

“My father.”

“He’s a priest? In the Swordlight Basilica?”

Lett nodded. “He raised me and my brother mostly by himself.”

“I didn’t know you were raised in the Church of Iomedae. I mean…” He gestured to the sword. “I knew you were a paladin, and all. But I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“He didn’t want me to be a Hellknight.”

“No shit.”

The subject dropped, mostly because neither of them had anything more to say. Lett broke the uncomfortable silence that followed with a question.

“Did the Paravicar give you our orders for the week?”

“She said she’d need some time to go over your translation of Naomni’s comm files. We’ll have some time off, maybe a couple of days. Not enough to travel to the Station, but enough to take a break.”

“Enough time to get myself out of this armor for a few days,” Lett decided, shelling it, laying it in a neat pile on her floor, flopping onto her bed. Kaston glanced at her, then at the chair in the corner, and set himself on it carefully. He waited until her breathing was even, until she was asleep, then slipped out the door into the hallway. The lights had been dimmed for the night cycle, so they didn’t awaken her.

Neither, of course, did the message that blinked up on her downturned comm unit.

_ Sender: Liam Duma | Date: 0121 AM, 06 Sarenith, AG 322 | Subject: Atonement _

_ Scar, if you’re reading this, do not come to the Station until you receive word from me or another member of the Church. It isn’t safe. I dare not say more, in case this message is traced. Inheritor shield you, daughter. If I should fall, know that while my heart belongs to Her, it also belongs to you and to Adran. _


	32. Baying at the Stars

Lett jolted awake at three in the morning. It was the darkest part of the Citadel’s cycle, which meant it would have been the darkest part of Golarion’s night, once upon a time. Her comm had buzzed, reminding her that she had an unread message. She scanned over what her father had sent, cold dread settling into her veins. In the dark, with nothing else to reassure her, she donned her armor, belted on her sword, and stepped from her door, tracing the path to Kaston’s quarters by memory alone.

A few floors above her, Kaston sat awake beside his firepit, which was now dark as most of the Citadel’s other lights. Driven from sleep after each half-hour fragment by nightmares, he had given up on rest. His eyes gleamed red in the shadows.

_ Where have I heard that voice before? _

A ping at his door sent him springing into the air before he recognized the sound. He opened it to find Lett, eyes bordering on mania, clutching her personal comm closely.

“Something’s happening,” she said, turning it around so he could see the screen.

“I know. I mean… I don’t know what, but I know something is going on. I can’t sleep for the nightmares, and for one trained School of the Mindbreaker, odd nightmares are never a coincidence.”

“So we’re on the same page. Any idea where to start figuring out  _ what _ is going on?”

“Aucturn, I’m guessing.” Kaston donned his robe and mask quickly. “If we can convince Xaevir to Drift the Citadel, we can be there in a week, maybe less. I can’t ask anything of him directly, though. I have to go through Iveren. You’re fully dressed, right? Come with me.” He pressed something into her hand. “And take this.”

She glanced down. He’d given her back Dr. Narl’s Mark of the Unswerving. Her hand reached under her armor and clipped it where it wouldn’t be seen. Then she followed him, his form already escaping out the door in front of her, tracing up hallways and elevators until he reached the door to Iveren’s quarters, raising his hand to ping. Now, as so many times before, it slid open before he ever touched the button.

Lett had never seen the Paravicar unmasked. She was startled to see how young the woman was, and how soft her features were. Her dark brown hair frizzed, untamed, and she wore a bathrobe, not her robe of office.

Kaston opened his mouth, and she raised a hand, silencing him before he could say anything.

“I know,” she said wearily. “I know. Nightmares. I suspect every Mindbreaker on this Citadel’s been having them, but you’re only the third to notify me, and the first to come in person. I woke the Master of Blades, and I woke Xaevir. If you know anything…”

“We need to make for Aucturn,” Kaston said, and then dropped to a knee. Lett thought it was a deferential gesture until he tried to grab onto her for support. “Whatever you can do to convince Xaevir. They’re shaping up there sooner than we thought.”

The Paravicar’s eyes widened as he collapsed all the way, still conscious. Lett bent to help him, and the Paravicar startled, as if only just now realizing she was there.

“Are you alright?” Lett asked.

“Fine,” Kaston said, but he sounded unconvinced. He tugged his mask from his face. “S-Scarlett, Iveren, if you can get these robes off me…”

Lett flushed pink, but the Paravicar started undoing the fasteners, wriggling the cloth off his arms. In the darkness, his hair flared brightly, and his eyes with it, and a shudder racked his body.

“What’s happening?” Lett wondered. “Kaston?”

“He’s agitated,” the Paravicar said. “Too agitated. Do you know any songs?”

“Do…? No. I can’t sing. I sound like a dying skittermander.”

“Damn.” She bent down, running a hand down Kaston’s bare, arching back, and a flame of jealousy ignited in Lett, momentarily. Then he screamed, and Lett realized that the Paravicar was trying to comfort him. His hands curled; his nails lengthened; his skin became soft velvet. A series of loud cracks came from him, and when Lett touched him, he screamed again, and it did not sound like a scream. It sounded like a howl, lost and animal, and in between a breath and a blink, a great dog with fire for hair scrambled to its feet, escaping to the far reaches of the room, cowering under the Paravicar’s bed, burying its snout beneath its paws. Lett followed it, and it whimpered. She held out a hand before it, wary.

“Kaston?” she tested, wondering if he was still in there somewhere. She reached out and patted it on the head, and thoughts flooded her, emotions, sensations, mostly of pain. “Oh, gods. Kaston.”

She dropped to her knees in front of him, though he was large, and did as she’d done with the puppy her father had given her and Adran one year in their childhood. She scratched under his ears, trying to ignore the feeling of burning. She ruffled his fur, ran her hands down his back. His eyes, his eerily intelligent eyes, peered back at her, and he calmed, curling up at her feet. As soon as he did, though, he sprung back to them, pacing around her, and with a brush of his tail, she understood why. His tumultuous emotions had broken him into this form; the calm would force him back, and the change hurt.

Lett looked deep into his eyes, and placed a hand on either side of his head, making sure he was watching her.

“Kaston,” she said, and her voice cracked, “I will hold you. If it will hurt less, or if it helps at all, share your pain. Please. We need you of sound mind and body for this. Preferably a human body.”

He whimpered, and the sound escalated, and as she held onto him, she felt a pain that was greater than the burn she’d been sustaining, as though every bone in her body had melted. She collapsed beneath his weight as it shifted upwards, and lay on the ground, staring at the ceiling, ringing from the pain.

“Lett?” His voice was troubled. “Lett, are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” She tried to push herself to her feet, or even to a sitting position, and the ringing sound in her head crescendoed. “Ow.”

“You’re  _ not _ fine, then.”

“I will be fine. Give me a moment.”

“I hurt you,” he realized.

“I told you to share your pain.”

“I still hurt you.” He turned away.

“Kaston.”

He looked back at her.

“I’m okay. Even if you hurt me, I’m okay.” She pushed herself up to a sitting position. The Paravicar stood mutely, watching. Lett shook her head, but that only made the ringing first. Kaston’s lip trembled, and she looked up at him.

“You’re okay,” she said. “Don’t force yourself through that again. Not for me. Think of something happy.”

_ You are loved, _ the unfamiliar voice in his head murmured, and he shivered, but Lett smiled at him, and he realized that the voice wasn’t wrong. He crouched, offered a hand. She took it, and he pulled her to her feet, then bent to pick up his robe. He turned away, throwing it back over his shoulders, and Lett saw in the faint light the mess of scar tissue that covered his back and upper arms. None of the scars were lines, not anymore, because drawing enough lines in one place, over time, just became a solid fill.

“Clearly, Paralictor Drayne trusts you,” the Paravicar said, assessing Lett. “But I feel the need, for his safety and yours, to remind you of this anyways. You will not speak of what you’ve seen here.”

“I won’t,” Lett assured her. A few spots danced in her vision.

“Swear it.”

“She doesn’t need to,” Kaston interrupted. “I trust her to make the right decisions regarding my safety and her own.”

The Paravicar opened her mouth, and Kaston stared dangerously. All that she said was, “I defer to your authority,  _ Paralictor _ , but I question your wisdom in putting your faith in one who has never put her tongue to the Code of the Scourge.”

“I won’t speak of it unless it may save his life,” Lett said. “I swear it.”

“Take no oath in idleness,” the Paravicar warned.

“I don’t need to be told that.”

“You are dismissed. Both of you. I’ll do what I can about Aucturn, but Xaevir may not like what I have to say.”

“I’d have gone directly to him if I thought he’d act on my word.” Kaston did bow, this time, and Lett, not knowing the exact formalities, followed suit. The door to her office closed behind them. Lett walked beside him, silent, looking at the floor.

“I’m sorry,” she said finally, as they stood outside his living quarters. “If I had you worried. You didn’t hurt me, not permanently. It’s mostly cleared up now.”

Kaston’s eyes glinted in the low light, seeming almost red. “I’m sorry for hurting you, either way. Get your rest, Scarlett.”

He tapped in, and the door closed behind him, and she stared at it for a few minutes.

“There’s still more devil in you than you let on,” she murmured, blinking back tears. She retreated to her room and curled up on her bed, but she couldn’t find sleep at first, not with the echoes of his shared pain still resounding through her mind and soul. Finally, sheer exhaustion drove her down into a nightmare-filled haze, from which she woke in tears, reminded of a Hell she had never been to, a reckoning like she had never experienced, and a sister she had never had.


	33. Connection

Inside his own room, in the faintest light of the firepit, Kaston tried to sort the voices in his head. The devil on his shoulder, at least, he could distinguish, but he was no longer sure which of the others was his own, was his favorite, was the one he wanted to listen to. Finally he focused on that other voice, the one that sounded like and unlike Abbey.

“Who are you?” he demanded of it, but it was silent. The other ones murmured, developing theories. Other long-lost relatives, long-dead villains, or heroes.

Quietly, as he waited, the other voices dismissed their suggestions.

_ Another child of Thrune who didn’t fall into Hell’s grasp? _

_ She would have been hunted down by now. _

_ An assassin. Seeking to kill the king. _

_ No one knows he holds the title. _

_ Perhaps a saint? _

_ Why would a saint speak to a man with the blood of devils? _

He startled, realizing that the last was suggested by the voice itself.

_ I know you are there. Who are you? _

He directed the question at it, and realized that he sounded like it, within his head.

_ I’m you. I’m a part of you. So are we all. Do you wish to assign me a name? A label, like you have with your fiendish mind? _

“I’m going insane. Gods help me.”

_ Do you mean that? _

_ Mean what? _

_ Do you really want the gods to help you? _

His shoulders shook, and he realized that he was crying, that he had been crying for some time. The tears washed over his face, leaving gleaming trails on his hands as he tried to wipe them away.

_ I want them to, but I can’t be sure whether any of the ones who would help would even be willing. _

_ Why don’t you ask? _

_ I’m afraid of being disregarded, or worse, destroyed and sent back to Hell. _

When it spoke again, the voice sounded disapproving.  _ Do you believe that any of them would send you back to Hell based on no judgment but your blood? _

“No,” he decided, aloud, though  _ loud _ was relative; his voice was a whisper. “No, they wouldn’t.”

_ Ask. _

_ Who? _

But the voice was silent again. He unwrapped his arms from his torso, staring into the darkness, wondering how.

_ You asked a god for help once already, _ the voice said.  _ You asked—you asked Iomedae to keep Lett safe. _

The voice stumbled, as though correcting itself, but Kaston barely noticed that. He clasped his hands together, like he’d seen Lett do on occasion, and directed his thoughts, as though he was trying to form a telepathic connection, but the target was indefinite.

_ What do I ask for? _

_ What do you want more than anything? _

He took a deep breath, trying again.

_ I ask for the same thing I asked for then. Keep her safe. Guard her against the dangers she’s sworn to face. Guard her against the traps Xaevir tries to lay for her. And if it becomes necessary, guard her from me. _

_ Do you really think you are going to hurt her? _

_ I have. I have hurt her already, multiple times. _

_ And she still loves you. _

_ She… does? _

_ Of course she does _


	34. Sworn in Idleness

The Paravicar’s warning wrapped around Lett as she lay, still paralyzed from sleep, in her bed, settling deep into her skin.

_ Take no oath in idleness. _

“I didn’t,” Lett murmured. “I meant it.”

She climbed out of bed, throwing her feet down first, and drew her sword out of its sheath, taking the special cleaning tool and clasping it over the silent rift-edge. It hummed beneath the electromagnet, the rift flickering into being just for a moment as it passed by.

With silent reverence, Lett clicked open her arm compartment and drew out the Sword of Valor amulet, hanging it by its red cord from the hilt of her blade. She closed her eyes and knelt, leaning her head against the pommel, and whispered.

“Forgive me, Inheritor, for what I have done. Turn not your ear from me, for I speak not on my own behalf. I speak for my father, and for the others of your clergy on Absalom Station, and for the Fourth Act Fleet as they guard it. Be their sword and their shield. Grant them protection and freedom. May those who die in your favor become your soldiers, and those who die in your name become your generals.”

Her hands shook; she barely kept her grip on the sword, but she continued.

“I speak for Mihaluín, wherever he is. He taught me to find the hope that I so desperately need right now. He taught me to see your light. If he needs hope, shine as a beacon for him.

“And I speak for this Order. Perhaps some among them intentionally follow evil, but they hold the law above all else, and for every one who intentionally follows evil, there is one whose heart is good. Preserve the good among the Order’s ranks as we turn our sights to Aucturn. Allow those who undermine its ideals to be discovered and judged accordingly. Lend your wisdom to its worthy leaders.”

Her prayer concluded, Lett relaxed her grip. The sword clattered to the ground, and she stared at her hands, trying to force them to stop their fatigued shaking. Finally, she gave up, reaching for the Sword of Valor amulet to tuck it away, and as her fingers brushed it, her hand froze.

It felt alive again, but only for a second. She held it, and she realized that it came in pulses, like a heartbeat. Her hand tingled, and she clasped it around her neck, laying it over her skinsuit.

“Thank you,” she whispered, sheathing her sword and crawling back into bed. Her sleep was no longer fitful. A red-winged figure in ancient armor watched over her, beating back the nightmares with her shield and her fists, and when the nightmares receded, the figure took off its helmet and placed its hand on Lett’s shoulder, murmuring in a language Lett didn’t know. In its eyes, she saw her own eyes, and its hair was made from red fire, though its face was not hers. Then it, and the light around it, faded back into dreamless sleep, and Lett did not remember it by the time she awoke, though she was better rested than she had been in weeks, and somehow, the last of her reckoning scabs had closed.


	35. Ranks and Files

Iveren pressed her hand against the scanner outside Xaevir’s door. It beeped, recognizing her palm signature, and a few minutes later, the Lictor appeared, opening it with all the concern for its security measures he would express if even an Armiger called on him.

“You’ve decided who, then?”

“You know who.”

“Paravicar,” Xaevir said, suppressing a scowl, “he is far from the ideal choice.”

“And what is that supposed to mean? You know who he is. What he is. He can handle it. It may even help him grow.”

“Is that what you want? To help him? Someday, he may grow beyond your own influence, and you will be forced to stand down and wonder at the monster you’ve created.”

“I know that well, Lictor. From experience, even.” She held eye contact with him until he realized of who she was speaking, and he bared his teeth like an animal might before speaking.

“If I didn’t know you so well, I’d think you  _ want _ the Thrune Ascendancy to return.”

“Perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think.”

“Perhaps not. I wouldn’t have thought you a puppet of the Crown.”

“I’m not a puppet of the Crown, Lictor. I’m a puppet of Hell alongside the Crown.”

“Of course.” Xaevir gave her a simpering smile. “But you are still a puppet, and the more people that fight for your strings, the more tangled they will be, until you are immobile.”

“You are saying this because you don’t want Kaston Thrune so close beneath you.”

“I am saying this because I don’t want him as the next ascendant Lictor in the event of both of our deaths.”

“I suggest him because I don’t think he wants to  _ be _ Lictor. You may have a few minutes to take your eyes off your back once in a while. Not that you will anyways, if you don’t even trust me.”

“Of course I don’t trust you,” Xaevir seethed. “You sold your soul to Belial. I think you’re misleading me on your reasons, Paravicar. You want the prince in your bed. You’re doing him favors because you think it will bring him there.”

Iveren’s silence betrayed her. A flicker of hellfire was visible in her faint scowl.

“It will only bring you down to be selfish,” Xaevir said, almost pityingly. “And further to lie to those who are trained to read others.”

“I’m already Hell-bound, Lictor. Besides, why would this recommendation convince him to sleep with me? I’m the more likely to die first of the two of us, and then he’d be unable to repay the favor even once he knew about it.”

“There are others, more qualified. Paralictor Fevuro, perhaps.”

“Paralictor Fevuro is too impulsive for the rank she already holds. I directed her to correspond with the Knights of Golarion regarding then-Armiger Duma, and had to stop her from personally insulting the Knight-Paladin in charge of an entire fleet. I have made my considerations, Lictor. Please make yours.”

Iveren did not wait for him to dismiss her, though she knew full well she could be court-martialed for insubordination. She turned and stalked away, her high-heeled boots clicking on the floor and her cape swishing behind her.

He wouldn’t have it in him to call her out, anyways.


	36. The Weight of a Heart

Kaston woke to the buzzing of his communicator, realizing that it held not one message but two.

_ Sender: Estasia Iveren | Date: 0648, 07 Sarenith, AG 322 | Subject: Assignment _

_ Xaevir doesn’t want to move the whole Citadel farther than the Diaspora, but he’s sending a third of our fleet, including me and your unit. You’ll need to choose a strike team to land, the rest will engage ships. He’s not going, which means he expects this to go poorly. Prepare for the worst. _

_ Sender: Estasia Iveren | Date: 0827, 07 Sarenith, AG 322 | Subject: Update _

_ Report to me ASAP. I don’t want this getting spread out among rank-and-file Scourgeknights, so I ask that you see me in person. _

He stumbled out of bed, realizing that he had taken off his armor the night before in anticipation of his transformation. Unfastening the robe, he shrugged it from his shoulders, rolling his carbonskin over his body, ignoring the shrieking aches from his recently transformed muscles. Limping, he clipped the armor back on, then arranged the robe less-than-perfectly over it. He almost forgot his mask, but ensured that it was there before opening his door, hurrying on his way to the Paravicar’s suite, trying not to focus on the soreness.

He pinged at her door, and it opened immediately. Her mouth was set into a flat line, an expression that looked surprisingly grim against her soft face, and he greeted her formally, with a salute and a bow, wincing on the way up.

She placed a hand on his shoulder, and a trickle of healing energy buzzed through him, numbing away the pain. He drew back, and she put it down uncertainly.

“I don’t need help.”

“You’re hurting.”

“As a result of something that is not your fault. It’s my burden to bear.”

“You still can’t control it.”

He shook his head. “I can, but only on the way back, and then I don’t want to. But that is not why you summoned me, is it?”

Iveren sighed. “No. No, it isn’t. But I worry about you. No. I called you here because Xaevir was attacked last night. Mentally assaulted, likely by a Mindbreaker. I know it wasn’t you, but to prove it I’d have to give the Master of Blades the timestamped footage from my mask.”

Kaston squeezed his eyes shut, wincing. “Xaevir knows about my... condition as well as you do, but the Master of Blades?”

“It may be necessary to avoid an attempted murder charge.”

“I know. Give it to him. Swear him into confidentiality.”

Iveren met his eyes. “You mean to mystically bind him, don’t you?”

“I can’t risk the consequences otherwise.”

“Paralictor, if Xaevir finds out that you’re binding other Scourgeknights…”

“Damn what he thinks.” Kaston’s eyes flickered red, and Iveren took one step back. “This is a matter of life and death. If everyone on this Citadel knows I’m a tiefling, they might start seeing patterns that aren’t there. And they might see one that  _ is _ there; the one that I need, for my own safety, to keep hidden. Turn the footage over.”

“And if anyone under your jurisdiction is suspect…”

“I will report to you. What about the mission to Aucturn?”

“That will continue as planned, provided the Master of Blades finds no incriminating evidence against anyone who is set to go on it.”

Kaston clasped his hand to his chest and bowed. “Understood, Paravicar.”

“Kaston, before you go…”

He straightened back up. She had taken off her mask, but she wouldn’t have needed to. Her face was still, her eyes deep in the shadows.

“Yes, Paravicar?”

“About Scourgeknight Duma.”

“What about her?”

“She knows as much as Xaevir and I. Enough to make you swear the Master of Blades to secrecy, yet you claim to trust her.”

“Are you envious, Paravicar?”

“Envy? That is an emotion I cannot afford, as Paravicar of this order.”

“You claim you cannot afford it, but it is there. Or something is there. You smell of anger, fear, like you are afraid that something you want is on the verge of slipping from your grasp.”

“Of course you can smell it.” Iveren scowled, stepping up close to him, putting an arm around his waist. She wasn’t as tall as Lett, but she still had a couple of inches on him, and she bent forth until their noses touched, and Kaston fought the urge to writhe away. “Breathe it in, then. Is that the smell of prey or a predator?”

“Paravicar,” Kaston warned as her eyes bored into his, “I respect your authority as my superior within this order. Don’t make me regret my decisions.”

She drew back a few inches, and her hand wrapped around his throat.

“You may be under my command, but Scourgeknight Duma is under the Master of Blades,” Iveren warned him. “If she does not uphold the Measure, and you do not enforce it, that duty falls to him, not to me.”

“You  _ are _ envious.”

Iveren’s hand tightened, and Kaston allowed his throat to close, not trying to force a breath, slumping in her grasp when he could sustain his legs no more.

“Mind your tongue, Kaston Drayne Thrune,” she said quietly, releasing him. His senses were twisted from where he lay on the floor, and her voice vibrated in his skull. He gasped for breath in as dignified a manner as he could manage.

“Why should I? All I speak is the truth, and it angers you.”

“It isn’t fair.” Her olive skin shone in the low light. “I was there for you. I knew you first. I took care of you and Abbey. I banished Occhiorasoi not once but twice. I helped you gain status in this order while obfuscating your past. Why do you choose her over me?”

“Because…” He took a deep breath, trying not to be angry with her. “Because Lett cares for me the way Abbey did. Both of you were there, last night, when I morphed, but she was the one who came to my side.”

Iveren’s face scrunched into what might have been a frown, but the expression was gone too soon to tell. “Emotion is weakness, Paralictor. If only you remembered that, you wouldn’t have needed to be coddled. Go about your business. We leave for Aucturn tomorrow.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Kaston said, bowed, and left the room. He managed to make it halfway back to his own quarters before he noticed his hands had clenched into fists.

_ Emotion is weakness, _ the devil on his shoulder said, and its voice sounded like Iveren.

“Emotion is strength if you know how to use it,” he answered.

_ Oh yes? How so? _

He fumbled for an answer but found none. “Shut up.”

_ I will be waiting. _


	37. Acts and Seals

After two weeks of having Mihaluín escape out from under her nose, Jenovere found him in exactly the first place she should have thought to check. He sat in the temple, alone in the full light, turning something over in his hands.

“You can’t just squirrel yourself away down here,” she chastised, sitting next to him, realizing that he was whispering a prayer so quietly she could barely hear it, even in the echoing space of the temple. She waited until his lips stopped moving, then wondered, “What are you praying for, Knight-Paladin?”

He took a deep breath, considering her. “It was for reassignment, at first, but that was selfish and foolish of me. What the Lady ordains, I must do, little as I may want to. I pray now for protection, for you and everyone else on this cathedralship and under its command, and for those on Absalom. And, of course, for Lett.”

“May I join you? I am a paladin, too, after all. Even if you’re her favorite.”

“I suppose two voices in prayer are better than one.”

“Where have we been assigned?”

“Aucturn,” Mihaluín said. “Something important to the Lady and to me lies beneath its surface, something that I am to retrieve. I fear that it is holding back a great evil, though, one which we will have to destroy, or risk it escaping.”

“Do you know what the something is, that you need to find?”

“A sword, of course.” He chuckled. “As a weapon, it may not be of much use anymore, but as a holy relic, it is of great importance. It belonged to a saint. To Lett’s namesake, in fact.”

“You aren’t saying everything, Knight-Paladin.”

“I am not ready to say everything.” He turned over the object he was holding. It was made from some sort of pale, gleaming metal, and engraved on it were words beyond translation and an eye. “I try, as I’ve sworn, but Iomedae knows that I am not her. I am not perfect. I am afraid of what we might find, because whatever it was, it killed Saint Scarlett, ages ago, before the Gap.”

“What is that?” Jenovere wondered, touching the object, then drawing her hand back in startlement.

Mihaluín smiled. “You, like me, are a paladin. You can sense what still remains in this.”

“Hers, and yet not hers.”

“Hers through Aroden, her… progenitor, in a way of speaking. Power from the same source, only less direct.”

“But what _is_ it?”

Mihaluín stood, reaching for the invisible panel in the center of the temple, which shifted the projections all around them from the variety they had been before to one set of images, forming a scene in multiple dimensions of a floating cathedral radiating blue-and-gold light. The grand window behind the altar, which always depicted Iomedae, shimmered, showing her in gold-edged armor, holding her cloak in one hand, the object in the other, an unfamiliar sigil upon her shield.

“An ordinary object which became the seal of the Eleventh Act.” Mihaluín swished his hand, and the projection in the grand window moved, lifting the thing with her cloak to fasten it into place. "Technically, its care is entrusted to Knight-General Lymikin, as the seal of each Act is assigned to its correspondent fleet and Knight regiment, but she, among others, has decided that a journey to Aucturn may require more than one seal.” He held it out to her. “I would like for you to wear it. You understand its significance more than most others.”

Jenovere’s fingers brushed the pin, feeling a heat that did not burn, and she took it. “How does it, uh, clasp?”

Mihaluín smirked and fastened it through the shoulder of her armor. It glinted in the dancing light. The projection unclasped her cloak again, and a wave of red panels spread down the center of the temple aisle.

“And what about you?”

“I have a seal to care for already.” He tapped on the hilt of his sword. “Everyone’s favorite.”


	38. The Black Depths' Keeping

Their Interdictus hovered low above Aucturn’s black seas, and Kaston watched them pass below silently. Lett kept one hand on her sword, wincing every so often.

“There.” Iveren broke the silence, pointing to a jagged scar between two expanses of water. It seemed to be a ridge, but as they approached, it showed itself instead to be an opening.

Kaston nodded in agreement, and the pilot lowered them into the scar. It was wider and far deeper than it looked; by the time the ship settled onto the ground, the faint light from above was gone. The others around activated the infrared sensors on their armor, and Kaston switched his on if only to blend in. Lett murmured a prayer, touching Kaston’s shoulder lightly, and a surge of warmth flooded through him.

“You found favor again,” he said, turning to her. “Didn’t you?”

“Maybe favor is not the best phrase for it. I found acceptance. I found a path that can take me back to favor. I have only to make sure I am not distracted from it.” She glanced at Iveren, who had been staring at the two of them, then back to Kaston. “And you? You seem to have found something yourself.”

Kaston shrugged, and the ship’s airlock door opened. With her first few steps onto Aucturn’s ground, which had an unsettlingly warm sheen in the infrared light, Lett kept her hand on her sword, unsure she would be ready for whatever lurked in these depths.

The scar, though, fed into a tunnel that looked as though it had been blasted into the stone. Whatever was down here was not entirely given to chaos, apparently.

“Am I to lead the way the whole time, Paravicar?” she wondered, and Iveren nodded.

“You are perceptive,” the Paravicar said shortly. “And you can hold your own in a fight. Not that the rest of you cannot.” She surveyed the others with them: two Signifiers and eight other Scourgeknights. “Merely that Scourgeknight Duma has proven herself capable, and this is not the mission to make a lesson of.”

They crept along the tunnel, and Kaston and the Paravicar took turns hour by hour bringing up the rear. When Kaston was not at the back, he spent his time at the front with Lett, not always speaking. He caught her praying on one of his switches, a litany that she murmured under her breath in Chelaxian, petitioning saints for their assistance:  _ Saint Lymirin, guide my sword. Saint Seelah, guide my sword. Saint Scarlett— _

She broke off with her namesake, glancing back at Kaston.

“Guide my sword, that I might show others the Inheritor’s light,” she finished, then met his eyes. “Sorry. I was just…”

“Praying. I noticed. In Chelaxian? Isn’t that a little, oh, old-fashioned?”

“Being a paladin is a little old-fashioned. That didn’t stop me.”

“But why Chelaxian, of all the Old Common dialects?”

Lett blinked. “Because Iomedae was Chelaxian,” she said, scanning his masked face as if trying to tell if he was joking. “In a time before, ah…”

“Before the Thrune Ascendancy. Of course.” Kaston’s voice was short. “Not that any records are left. As in so many cases, I expect the Order of the Rack took care of what the Gap didn’t, may they all burn in Hell.”

“That’s a harsh curse, coming from you, Paralictor.”

The holographic eyes in his helmet flickered, and Lett imagined that beneath it, his hair had flared like an ember in the wind. She reached out and touched his wrist, and his hand clenched into a fist.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault my ancestors were too power-hungry to properly assess the consequences of dealing with devils. Or of sleeping with them.”

Lett tried to lace her fingers through his, but he kept his fist clenched, so she just wrapped them around it instead. “Well, at least some of the consequences are good?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You wouldn’t be you if not for their bad judgment. And I like you. Just as you are.”

Kaston blinked. “Just as I... Scarlett, I’m not even remotely a good person.”

“Nobody is perfect. I—I’ve done bad things. Made bad choices. I got cocky and got a sergeant killed in my first mission with the Knights of Golarion.”

“But that was an accident.”

“Maybe. But when I tripped my brother fifteen stories up a building because I wanted to teach him a lesson about wearing stolen magboots too big for him? That wasn’t an accident.”

“You said your brother was a criminal,” Kaston said. “That he’d been imprisoned. For—for what, again?”

“For campaigning for augmented rights. Except instead of joining the Augmented themselves, he and a bunch of other angry teenagers formed their own group. Went around starting riots and blowing up stores. And can you guess how he came to be augmented in the first place?”

“Because you tripped him,” Kaston realized. “And he fell.”

“Fifteen stories.” Lett scowled. “I lied to my dad. I think he knew I wasn’t telling the whole truth, but by the time he was done fussing over Adran’s augmentations, I was gone, off at school. He confronted me about it, and I got mad. I blamed his work as a priest; I said it made him paranoid. I didn’t dare admit that I had almost killed my own brother. Nobody is thoroughly a good person, Kaston. Not me. Not my father or my brother. Not my paladin mentor, though I don’t know what he’s done. But he’s mortal, which means he’s made mistakes. He has vices, as do we all.”

Something rustled in the dark ahead of them, and both of them turned their heads to it, startled. A creature, glowing faintly blue, padded across the tunnel, then faced them quietly. It bared its teeth, and the tentacles around its head swirled. Lett shivered, setting one hand on her sword and one on her scourge.

“There’s something up there,” she said over the comm channel with the whole group.

“An akata,” the Paravicar recognized. “Don’t let it bite you.”

“That’s helpful,” Lett grumbled. “Anything else?”

“If you have salt water, it’ll make them flinch.”

“I don’t,” Lett muttered to herself.

“They’re not very strong. There’s just the one? Are there any eggshells lying around?”

Lett scanned the ground. “Uh, yeah, if that’s what those blue metal things are.”

“Then there’s more than one. Fight at a distance if you can.”

“The only gun I have is a stun ray.”

“I was more referring to  _ not  _ using that sword you carry.”

Lett scowled, but said nothing.

“Her sword ties her to Iomedae,” Kaston said flatly. “It should be her decision, Paravicar.”

“I did not phrase it as an order,” Iveren answered. “But if your insistence on fighting with a sword gets you hurt, Scourgeknight Duma, I accept no responsibility.”

“Some of us,” Hyetse chimed in, “came prepared.” He drew four guns from the holsters at his sides, and Lett rolled her eyes and drew her sword.

The akata paced forward a few steps, and then leapt towards Lett, faster than she had time to think. She brought up the sword, slashing at its tentacled face, and a few of the appendages were sliced off, squirming on the ground. From where they’d been slashed away, a few vibrantly glowing blue maggots emerged, and Lett abruptly realized that the akata’s faint blue shimmer didn’t come from its own body.

Kaston stepped up beside her, raising his scourge in his left hand, motioning for a spell with his right. The Infernal-marked ribbons on his robe fluttered in a nonexistent wind, and the akata reeled back, crumpling in pain, then falling still. From behind it, though, several more swarmed. Lett powered up the force field in her armor, layering it with her solar mote, cutting through the cluster with her sword defiantly. Kaston, Hyetse, and the others backed her up with spells, guns, and scourges, and while once or twice a tentacle reached for the joints in her armor, none made it past the force field.

The akata were all downed, but more blue light grew ahead. Lett proceeded carefully, not bothering to sheath her sword, and the Paravicar was at her shoulder with a gun. Lett noticed it was  _ not _ a stun ray.

The silouhette of a human became clear, a figure in greenish-blue armor that fit close to its body. Strangely polished gemstones, which Lett recognized as aeon stones, were set into certain places on it, and the armor’s mask completely hid its wearer’s face, with no space even for eyes. It stood by what was apparently an elevator shaft, connecting to a larger cavern.

As they saw the figure, it apparently saw them, raising its enormous gun. Iveren shot twice, and then a barrage of bullets came towards Lett, whose forcefield quickly died. She slid under, trying to knock the figure’s legs out, and managed to budge one enough that it lost its balance. The firing stopped, and Lett climbed to her feet as quickly as she could, wrapping the figure’s hands behind its back with the unlit tongues of her scourge, switching her comms to the open system and hoping the figure received her.

“Where does this shaft lead?” she asked in Azlanti. “Tell me, and I will unbind you.”

“Telling you would make me a traitor to the Event Horizon, and thus to the Throne and Lissala,” the figure answered, confirming Lett’s suspicions. “Unless you work with us, with Special Operative Zea’lai.”

Lett’s eyes narrowed beneath her helmet, weighing that option. She settled for the truth, though, hoping it would be more effective to intimidate than to try and lie.

“Special Operative Zea’lai is dead by my hand,” Lett said. “By the sword that I hold to your back. In the name of Aroden and his Inheritor.”

“Then the Scourge is a lost cause. I did not think the lie of the Left-Behind, of his very existence, had ever spread so far.”

Lett couldn’t understand how the voice spoke with so little emotion.

“Kill me if you wish,” it said. “But you will not have what you seek.”

“If they do not find you,” Lett suggested, “they cannot punish you for treason. Turn your back on the Throne, and you may find a place with the Hellknights.”

“I will not do that,” it said. “I swore an oath to the Throne under Lissala’s supervision.”

“I will not kill you. So it seems that we are at a stalemate.”

“What does he want?” Iveren wondered in Common.

“He wants us to kill him.”

“Why not oblige him?”

“He is not my equal.”

“For fuck’s sake. You and your honor.” Iveren hefted her gun, and the Aeon Guard’s head snapped toward it.

“Your commander will grant me the mercy that you will not,” he realized.

“I do not think you deserve it,” Lett said. “But she is the Paravicar of my Order. Pray to Lissala if you think she will be kind to you in death.”

The Aeon Guard bent his head, and the scattershot from Iveren’s gun punctured several holes in the base of his helmet, and a couple in Lett’s arm where it still held her flail. She winced, but the force field was coming back, and blocked them.

“Take the body back into that tunnel,” Iveren said sharply. “Armiger Akaoth, wedge the elevator door open, please. Paralictor, did you bring your immovable rods?”

Kaston nodded, drawing two black-spined rods from a holster at his waist.

“Place them so that the elevator cannot descend further than here.” Iveren slung her gun over her back. “We will need to do some questioning.”

They retreated into the mouth of the tunnel so that they were out of sight and waited. The elevator’s monitor showed that it was moving, but it never came down as far as their tunnel, not for several more hours. Then it clunked and stopped, and the lights flickered as though power was being drained. A few seconds of muffled swearing later, the door wrenched open to an augmented fist built from the same metal as the Aeon Guard’s armor. A group of figures stepped out, and Iveren raised her gun and shot at the knee of the first one. Lett, though, recognized the silouhettes, and the voice that gave an offended shout.

“Wait, wait, Paravicar,” Lett said, pushing the gun aside before Iveren could shoot again. “I know these guys.”

The lights powered back on, and she found herself face-to-face, or really helmet-to-helmet, with Luck. The lashunta’s characteristic waist-length hair was tucked underneath her space suit, but her helmet was decorated with stickers, featuring a blue skittermander with a tiny doshko, a couple of butterflies, and a lot of stars.

“You’re friends with a Desnan?” The distaste in Iveren’s voice was clear.

“I wouldn’t say friends,” Lett admitted. “Business partners, though. We had a common interest, when I worked with the Starfinder Society.”

“And that was?”

“Destroying the Spawn of Rovagug,” Lett said, assessing the rest of the Stormfalcon’s crew. There were a few new faces with them, including a pair of apparent Aeon Guards. Senya’s armor, like her other creations, was plain and optimized for practicality. Sparky wore a space suit decorated with circuitlike patterns, and Lett abruptly realized that Rhot wasn’t with them. Besides the Aeon Guards, there was another ysoki and another human-sized figure.

“Lett?” Senya finally gathered. “Fancy meeting you here. Where’s your boyfriend?”

“Kaston’s back in the tunnel.” She turned and waved, gesturing for the others to come out. “Any idea what’s down there?”

It was Sparky’s turn to interrupt. “Another Beacon, or so we’re told. And that means another Spawn, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Mind introducing me?” the other ysoki wondered, and Lett tried to place why her voice was so familiar.

“Luck, if you wouldn’t mind?” Senya said, nodding to Lett and Kaston.

“Sure thing. This is Scarlett, and this is Kaston. They are definitely dating,” Luck asserted, and Lett clenched her jaw behind her helmet.

“Scar?” The ysoki’s helmet went almost transparent, and Lett could see her face all of a sudden.

“Clue?” Lett shifted the transparency on her own helmet. “What’re you… Yeah, no, I guess that makes sense. You’re all with the Starfinders, of course.”

“And you’re still a Hellknight.” Clue snorted. “I thought you wouldn’t make it through Armiger training.”

“Glad to have your vote of confidence.” Lett turned to look at Sparky, eyes flickering between the two of them, wondering, but not fool enough to say anything yet.

“This is Red,” Sparky provided, gesturing to the one with the blue augmentations. “Your name twin, of a sort.”

“Very clever.” Senya’s tone said she found it exactly the opposite, but Sparky ignored her.

“This is Enna,” he said, gesturing to one of the Aeon Guards, then the other. “And Lina. They look like the rest of Event Horizon’s Azlanti troops, but they’re not bad. Call themselves Golden Eye Rebels. They can help more than they can hurt, right?”

“Can we, like, walk and talk?” Red interrupted. “I thought we were gonna break me out, but if you lot have to go fight this thing first, let’s get on it.”

“We  _ were _ taking the elevator,” Senya said, adjusting the transparency on her helmet so that Iveren and Kaston could see her dirty glare. “But it seems something is blocking the way.”

With a roll of her eyes, Iveren pushed past the crew and retrieved the immovable rods. “There. Are you happy?”

“I’m rarely happy outside of a cybernetics lab,” Senya said, sliding the door back open. “Are you and yours coming with us, Succubus?”

“My name is Paravicar Iveren,” she said sharply, “since you never asked. And yes.”

“I didn’t ask because I didn’t care, and fantastic.” Sarcasm flowed from Senya’s voice. “That means we have to figure out how to fit twelve people in an elevator probably meant for four.”

Lett sighed and tucked herself into a corner, trying to take up as little space as possible. The others piled in. Clue was barely able to wedge herself into the opposite corner and reach the elevator’s console, sending them all downward. At some point, Lett realized that the car had picked up speed, probably because it was overburdened. A shriek from the cable, far above them, picked up eventually, and they slowed, just enough that when the car fell from the bottom of its track and crunched on the ground below, no one was seriously injured. The light flickered and died; the console had long ago.

“So much for getting me out of here,” Red muttered, wrenching the door open again and peering out into the blackness. “Any of you see in the dark?”

Lett activated the infrared sensors on her armor, following the projections inside her helmet. The other Hellknights, clearly, had the same idea. The room wasn’t large—maybe twenty feet in diameter—and in the center of the rough stone rested an object shaped, but not sized, like the Beacon they had deactivated before. Three tunnels led out at even intervals, one apparently sloping down, and the other two up.

“What’s out there?” Luck wondered. “I hate not being able to see anything.”

“Another Beacon,” Sparky identified. “Can you see the words, Scarlett?”

“Same as before.  _ A world to hide a world, _ and all that.”

The taller of the Aeon rebels tilted her head. Lett thought it was an expression of surprise.

“Shall we?” Senya wondered, poising over it.

“Hellknights, vigilance,” Iveren ordered, and Lett, with all the others, snapped to attention. “Enna, was it? Why don’t you do the honors?”

With a sharp nod, making her look almost robotic in her full armor, the taller Aeon rebel stepped forward.

“Watcher be my guide,” she said, and flipped the deactivation switch.


	39. The Sword of a Saint

Inside a planet, the sensation was different. As the pocket dimension unfolded, the distance between Lett and the others increased, but she didn’t feel like she was moving. The Beacon itself formed into a different shape, one that looked like a container, but there were more pressing concerns.

A rumble beneath the ground was the only warning they had of the worm. It burrowed beneath two of the Armigers, and with a shout, one was thrown as it exploded from below. By no means did it look like the sort of thing that should be able to dig through rock. Its body was soft and slimy, and tentacular appendages stretched from most parts of its body.

“Armigers, are you conscious?” Lett queried, and one’s faint voice came over her comm unit, to her relief.

“Yes, Scourgeknight. I think my leg is broken, though.”

The other Armiger, though, was silent.

“You are excused from fighting,” Kaston said, before Iveren could order otherwise. “Paravicar, I don’t mean to offend, but you are less armored than the rest of us. It would reflect badly on us both if you, or anyone else in our unit, were harmed. Can you heal him?”

“Of course, Paralictor Drayne.” Her voice was edged, but she hastened to the Armiger’s side. Lett suspected she was relieved to stay out of the fighting. “Scourgeknights Duma and Akaoth, engage the… thing. Keep it away from us.”

“On it,” Lett said, with her sword already drawn, her mote formed into armor around herself. It blazed brightly, so that anyone without augmentations or armor sensors would be able to see.

“Hey, ugly!” Luck shouted, raising her whip in one hand and clutching her starknife in the other.

One of the Aeon rebels raised her hand, as if calling forth a solar sword, and charged in, but no weapon was visible. Still, when she struck at the worm, whatever Lett couldn’t see made deep cuts. The others provided support from the back, with rifles, Clue’s spell-slinging pistols, and, in the case of the other Aeon rebel, a rocket launcher.

The thing seemed to absorb every hit they dealt to it for a long while, healing almost as fast as they slashed away at it. It burrowed down, striking and sweeping with its tail, and it bore down on Lett. Gritting her teeth, she remembered the bone devil, and the thought rooted her in place for a second too long. A few of her armor plates dented, pushing in the plating on her augmentations beneath as well, and the Aeon rebel stepped over her gracefully, slicing at it.

A shriek emanated through the air, seeming to send spiderweb cracks across reality, and Lett, trying to block it from her mind, scrambled to her feet. The wormlike thing burrowed its way entirely out of the ground, and now she saw that it hadn’t been absorbing the damage, only transferring it. The part of its body that had been hidden beneath the ground was covered in wounds if it was covered with flesh at all. Inside its translucent form, Lett could see the Armiger it had apparently swallowed, and she dove for it, hacking away at the flesh with all her might. The thing collapsed, and the Armiger, a stocky android, tumbled out. Somehow, she was still alive, and Lett funneled healing energy into her. Purplish goop from the Spawn’s stomach covered everything, but vaporized as Lett clambered to her feet. A light grew behind her even as her solar armor faded back into a mote, and she heard Luck’s awed voice.

“Are you an angel?” she asked.

A chuckle. “Just a paladin, child.”

Lett was afraid to turn around, but she did anyways. Mihaluín held a blazing sword in each hand; the downward-sloping tunnel was behind him.

“You’re late for the fight,” Senya said, cleaning purple goo off her rifle.

“Can I see that sword?” Luck wondered, excitedly pointing at the fancier of the two that Mihaluín was holding. With a chuckle, he held it out to her, and she took it. The fire running along its blade, though, evaporated as she took it, and she pouted.

“How does it work?” she wondered.

“Not with a battery, I’m afraid.”

“You don’t look very afraid.”

“It is an expression.” He held out his hand for the sword, and when Luck returned it, sheathed it at his side, scanning everyone, and his eyes came to land on Lett. “There you are. It’s difficult to recognize you when your entire Order dresses the same.”

“It’s supposed to perpetuate the whole ‘legions of Hell’ vibe,” Lett said, and Mihaluín held the other sword out to her solemnly. “What’s this?”

“What does it look like? It’s a sword,” Senya observed. “I thought, being raised in the Church of Iomedae and all, you’d have picked up on what they look like.”

Lett rolled her eyes. “Thanks, Senya. That’s very valuable information. I appreciate it.” She put a hand on the sword’s hilt, and Mihaluín let it go, and its light dimmed, flickering. The older paladin frowned, a ghost of worry somewhere in his nearly unreadable eyes.

“Struggling with your faith, I see.”

“It’s hard not to.” Lett lifted the sword, inspecting it. “Why’re you on Aucturn, of all the places? How did you get down here?”

“Many paths lead to the center of Aucturn, and many lead from it. They don’t always intersect as is most logical. And I was retrieving the sword you now carry. I should have thought that obvious, but then again, I am centuries older than you. What is obvious to me may not be obvious to others.”

“You didn’t answer my question earlier, either,” Lett said, turning the sword over. “I mean… obviously, it’s a sword. And obviously, it’s powerful. But where did it come from? Whose was it?”

“Your namesake’s.” Mihaluín’s eyes darkened. “Saint Scarlett died four times, and the last on Aucturn, as the tale goes. She brought nothing with her but her soul, her heart, and her sword, and in the end, two of these were broken, but so was her foe.”

“That’s no tale of her I’ve ever heard.”

“What survives the Gap tells only that she died standing against some unknown, unspeakable evil. I know, though. I’m starting to remember things. His name was Ramlock.” He shrugged, and pointed at the two upward-sloping tunnels. “I imagine you’re looking for the way out? One of those, at least, should lead there.”


	40. Instrument of Destruction

The tunnels leading upwards were full of other dangers—more akata; the Aucturn-native, spider-crawling creatures known as orocorans; creatures that may once have been blue-augmented but were now something entirely rewritten. Although they attacked her with fervor, she prayed for them once they were downed, acknowledging that they had once been human.

They found their way up, and out the way Mihaluín had apparently come in. A Shieldcraft marked with the insignia of the Sixth Act Fleet was docked there; it seemed he had managed to slip through the blockade of Aeon Guards surrounding the sector.

Between them, though, a figure stood, staring at the Shieldcraft with silent loathing. At least, Lett thought it was loathing, until she realized that it was, instead, a horrid, twisted mask. His tattered robes were a color like blood, dried for too long to still be considered red, if it had ever been red to begin with. Shards of broken glass and bone hung from his belt. He turned towards Lett, and a sensation of intense anger swept over her. She pushed it down, though some irritation that he would target her lingered, as she saw no signs of disruption in any of her colleagues, at least, not until she turned to Kaston, who was shaking, though his mask covered his face.

“I am not some sort of mindless beast,” he snapped in Infernal, and his voice echoed across the landscape, despite the helmet that sealed him away from the noxious atmosphere.

“Of course not.” The figure’s voice was searing, echoing through both sonic and psychic channels, screeching like feedback from a poorly-tuned light or microphone, almost too high to hear. “You are a Mindbreaker. You must _have_ a mind to break them, to be an instrument of destruction.”

The feedback in his voice crescendoed, and light and space seemed to shake with it, putting cracks in reality itself. Lett tried to block it from her mind, but it was too much; she pressed her eyes shut as the scream tried to fracture every fiber of herself, body and soul. She thought she was breathing, maybe, raggedly, but she wasn’t sure if her heart was beating, if she even had a body.

She was an Armiger again, but the memory was not as it had been. She was back in Kaston’s Signifier chambers, pinned beneath his weight, but her eyes were open this time. He thrust into her, and she watched him become a hellhound once again. Her arm and her legs and what lay between them, flesh and bone as she had almost forgotten them being, snapped with his weight, and she screamed, screamed and writhed and pleaded him to stop, but he did not stop. His fur flared and he grew spines, teeth in places there should not have been teeth, far too many eyes. He snapped at her face, and she shrank away from him in a twist of pain, fear, confusion, a physical twist that shattered every bone in her body.

All became dark again, and the screeching sound returned, fading into a grand, lighted expanse of reflective marble flooring and cloud-shrouded ceiling. The red-winged, fire-haired archon from her dreams stood across from her.

“You are a failure,” she intoned, and although Lett could not place the language she spoke, the words were perfectly clear. “You are unworthy to bear my sword, or that of any other.”

Sound and then silence came again, drowning out all sensation at its peak.

She was in the temple within _Mercy_. She knelt before the altar, in tears. A grand sword lay before her, shattered, and Mihaluín stood over her, eerily silent, an expression of bitter disappointment on his face.

“You should never have tried to strike her,” he whispered. “Traitor.”

Lett’s tears turned to laughter. “She surrendered. She knew that it would kill her otherwise.”

“And you used that leverage to kill her anyways. Is this what you have learned from your Thrune? To backstab your way into an inheritance? It does not work that way. You are a disgrace to the Church and to your namesake.”

Once more, the resonance grew, leaving her in the darkness of sleep, or perhaps of death. If it was death, she welcomed it, preferring it vastly to the memories invading her consciousness. They were not real, she told herself. But as everything deteriorated, she was not sure what was real and what was not. She was not even sure who or what she was.

_This cannot be death. Not yet. Death is merely where I am headed._

A shimmering line stretched out before her, and she reached for it, but before her fingers could reach it, a shout from behind her distracted her. She turned, and saw a doorway, faintly illuminated, and a figure reached through, neither distinctly male nor female, but with black hair and yellow-gold eyes that cut across the space.

“Please,” it whispered. “Please don’t follow the River.”

“River?”

Lett turned back and found that the shimmering line was indeed a river. Its current was all around her, and it tried to sweep her away.

“Take my hand,” the figure ordered. Its voice was sharp, with an accent Lett could not place.

She stretched out her arm, and the current rushed over them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a day late-- sorry about that. I hope you enjoy it regardless.


	41. Those Who Reject Her

Kaston hardened his mind against the other mystic’s assault, forcing himself to maintain consciousness. He knew there would be backlash, but he dared not let the other know he had survived it, so he did not respond. He crumpled, and let his body lay still until he no longer felt the presence of the other mind. Then he rose, taking in the scene. A blonde woman whose holographic armor shifted when she moved was the only other conscious person there; she seemed to be having trouble with a device in her hand, tapping at it furiously. He thought her head was exposed, until he caught the glimmer of a force field over it.

She turned, and saw Kaston on his feet, freezing and reaching for a pistol at her side. He put his hands in the air, but walked towards her, joining her comm channel.

“What happened?” she demanded. “Why are they shrouded in chaos magic? Do you have anything to do with this?”

“Chaos magic? That alone should tell you that I have nothing to do with it. I am a Hellknight.”

“Well, their cells are degenerating, and whatever I try to do, this stupid magic is blocking it. I can’t dispel it.”

“Do you have any other assessments? Treatments?” Kaston frowned, then added, “Can I help with anything?”

“The treatment for this is… well, it’s pretty rare. And it’s not cheap. I couldn’t hope to get the materials for it.”

“Materials?” Kaston prompted.

“I would need a… a structure for the cells to reshape themselves from. A dilution of blood from an archon or axiomite.”

“Or a devil?” Kaston guessed.

The Knight pursed her lips, wary eyes landing on him. “I suppose devil blood would work, too.”

“And if they aren’t treated?”

“At this rate? They have minutes.”

“Are there other Knights on that ship?”

“Not that I command.”

“You should be able to request their help for a medical emergency. Get the injured inside.”

“What about you?”

“There’s little point in treating them if I expose myself to the toxins in the atmosphere.”

The Knight looked incredulous, but she lifted Sparky in one arm and Clue in the other, and Kaston lifted Lett, and they entered the cathedralship. She left almost immediately, going to bring in more of the injured, taking two other Knights who happened to be passing by with her. They didn’t bother bringing them to the medical bay. A message light was blinking on Kaston’s visor, but he ignored it.

Kaston twisted off his gauntlet, unsure of the Knight-Medic’s usual methods, but formulating ideas in his mind. He pricked his finger with one of the barbs of his scourge, and a drop of blood welled up; he pried Lett’s armor away, revealing a sticky mess of blood beneath, and shook the drop from his finger as he murmured a stabilizing incantation that was just as much a prayer that this would work. He did the same for Sparky, for Clue. For Red, once she was brought in, and for Senya. For Luck. For three of the others in his command squad.

The Knight-Medic set Hyetse down, and said quietly, “He was the last of the living. Shall we bring in the dead, as well?”

“If you are able.” He glanced over them, noticing that Iveren wasn’t among them. “Just these nine? That’s all that survived?”

“Nine of thirteen?” She glanced up at him. “That is… respectable, against such odds, even considering your reagents. I am not sure why you carry devil’s blood, but... well, if it can be used to save people, I should keep my opinions to myself.”

She turned to go and retrieve the dead, and Kaston stabilized Hyetse, fastened his gauntlet back on, and joined her and the other Knights of Golarion. All of the fallen had been Hellknights. He suspected that she’d preferentially brought in those that weren’t, a quietly biased celestial triage. He checked the message ping while they walked.

_ From: Lictor Chaen Xaevir | Sent: 0002, 21 Sarenith, AG 322 | Subject: Mission Progress _

_ I have little way of knowing how your mission on Aucturn is progressing, but the Paravicar’s life monitors say that she is dead, and I have not been able to reach any of your comms since then. Please report immediately. _

Kaston glanced at the clock set with it. It was 0013 hours, which meant he’d only been ignoring the Lictor for eleven minutes. Still, he shut off his external comms and recorded an outgoing message as he carried in the dead.

_I survive, as do four of those under my command: Scourgeknights Scarlett Duma and Riken Ayedzef, and Armigers Hyetse Akaoth and Thriss Qualf. Paravicar Iveren is dead, as are the other two Scourgeknights, and Ayedzef’s other Armiger_ _. My condolences, Lictor. I know Iveren was your commander once._

“What did you do to them, anyways?” the Knight-Medic wondered once they were back inside, startling Kaston out of his reverie. “They seem stable, and the chaos magic is gone, but…”

“Some might call it blood magic.” Kaston chuckled darkly. “You said you were surprised I carried devil’s blood, but I always do. It runs in my veins, Knight-Medic. I… improvised. I combined it with a stabilization spell.” He unsealed his gauntlet again; the wound had not closed, and a line of blood ran down his finger, over his palm, under the plates on his arm.

The Knight-Medic stared at the wound with cold iron fury, raw and dangerous.

“Do you have any idea how many transmissible diseases—” she began, and then realized, “You said it runs in your veins? You are a devil-child yourself. Goddess preserve us.” In the light, he noticed a faint sheen of gold in her skin, now that the force field was down.

“And you’re a racist aasimar,” Kaston muttered, throwing off his helmet, hoping that the fury in his eyes was more tempered than hers. “Look, Knight-Medic, I did what I could to save them. Not all of us are privileged enough to inherit the blood of the Upper Planes.”

She set her jaw, but before she could say anything more, a voice from behind Kaston startled him.

“How many did you save?”

The aasimar medic was silent, expecting Kaston to answer the question, since it was addressed to him. When he didn’t, when he turned to see who had spoken and fell silent, she provided, “Nine, sir.”

It was the elf, of course, the older of the Knight-Paladins. He’d found his way out, though the Azlanti troopers were not with him.

“Take those who are still alive to the medical bay, Ziegler,” he ordered, but he was focused on Kaston. If her eyes had been cold iron, if Kaston’s had been molten steel, then the elf’s were wrought gold, soft but complicated.

Another message blinked on Kaston’s visor, but he ignored it, as the elf turned to him.

“Nine.” The paladin’s voice was much softer than it had been. “And one drop of blood to each, exactly?”

Kaston nodded, starting to become afraid. He had the sense that the elf was the sort of person who was most dangerous when quiet.

“You are Kaston,” the elf said, and it was not a question.”

“Yes.” He paused, and then added, “Sir.”

“Lett has told me what you did to her.”

Perhaps those monochrome eyes were not gold after all. There was an edge to them, a terrible edge.

“I was in error.” Kaston searched for the right words. “I loved her, and I had been taught wrongly about what was and was not love. And then I thought I had left her for dead, thought I had killed her by doing what I had always been told was the right thing, by never questioning my superiors.”

The paladin’s eyes unnerved Kaston. They saw everything, and despite their complexity, they betrayed nothing. Still, when he said “Come,” and turned away, Kaston followed mutely, down a few short corridors and into the heart of the ship. There rested the miniature cathedral that gave the model its name, although it was miniature only in comparison to the Swordlight Basilica. It was large enough to fit perhaps four hundred people in its wings, and shifting patterns gleamed across the ceiling. And there was something else, too, a presence that infiltrated his armor and his façade and settled deep into his skin, that woke the pain in his fiendish blood and coaxed tears to his eyes, tears that brought no relief but burned like fire themselves, burned with guilt and fear.

But that was the worst of it. He was not struck down, nor did the elf make any motion against him. Instead, he reached for, apparently, invisible hologram controls. The patterns surrounding them shifted, and the one standing atop the altar, which had been an image of Iomedae reforming her sword with ribbons of light while a shadow-like figure loomed in the background, shifted colors and bent to a knee, bracing herself on her sword with her right hand and holding her left out to a wounded knight. Eight other knights lay around the altar, and a drop of blood hung off the end of the mortal Iomedae’s finger.

“It was a different time,” the paladin said, and his tone was precise, as though quoting. “It was rumored, in those days, that even one drop of the blood of the righteous could save a man from a vampire’s curse. Nine of the Knights of Ozem were struck down by Basilov’s betrayal, their blood stolen, and she gave nine drops of her own to save them.”

Kaston shivered, understanding what the paladin meant to point out to him.

“I am not a miracle worker, Knight-Paladin.”

“Are you certain of that? It is said that the most devout of Iomedae’s church live by the Acts, that we hope and strive to recreate them. But the most important do not hope, nor do they strive. They are the ones who at first reject her.” He strode back up the aisle, his cloak brushing Kaston’s ankle as he walked, and when the cathedral door closed, the lock clicked behind him.

Kaston, finally alone, checked the message that had been sent to him.

_ Sender: Lictor Chaen Xaevir | Sent: 0030, 21 Sarenith, AG 322 | Subject: Mission Progress _

_ I do not need your condolences, Paravicar Drayne. Return to the Citadel as soon as you are able. There is work to be done. If you have anything else to report, report it now, please. _

Kaston started speaking his reply— _ Some of the survivors are being attended to by the Knights of Golarion. If they do not return us to our ship, we will set out for it when they are recovered. I apologize for the inconvenience, Lictor. I do think, however, I have found the perpetrator of the assault toward you _ —before the title by which he had been addressed registered. His blood ran cold. The target on his back had just gotten bigger.

He turned his eyes to the altar then, to the image of Iomedae, and was startled to see that it had moved, offering blood to each of the nine knights, and then it perched on the altar and looked at him expectantly. He lifted off his helmet, setting it on one of the pews, and knelt in the center of the aisle. The plates of his armor dug into his legs painfully, but he ignored them.

He was still not sure how to pray, but he looked at the hologram, fixed his eyes on hers. They were colored silver, he noticed, like his own. He remembered what Lett had said, about Iomedae being Chelaxian, and smiled thoughtfully.

“Thank you,” he said softly, in his native tongue. “For my life, but mine is worth nothing. Thank you for hers.”

The hologram returned his smile, and a jolt went through him. It was not the smile that startled him, though, but the voice of his connection answering, almost as though the hologram had spoken it.

_ There it is. There is your heart, Kaston Thrune. You are worth more than you think, silver-eyed child. _


	42. Blind Justice

Kaston stared at the EKG, taking in every beat of Lett’s heart, if only to convince himself that he hadn’t failed after all, that she was alive.

“Are you gonna sit there waiting for her to get up all week, or what?” Senya wondered, and he nearly tripped over the base of Lett’s cot.

“I’m worried about her. Is that so strange?”

Senya smirked. “I mean, since the two of you are clearly smitten with each other, maybe not. Look, I’m here to fix up her augmentations so they don’t kill her, so if you want to watch, fine, but don’t get in my way.”

“Is that why she’s still unconscious?”

“Could be. Could just be that some of us recover faster. She’s got a neural link, but there are systems put into those…” Senya pulled a tool out of the box she always had clipped to her belt, prying at the implants on Lett’s temples. “They shouldn’t backfire. Not anymore.”

“Not anymore?”

“That was a big issue with cybernetic prosthetics for a long time. You have to link them into your nervous system, so that they can receive motor signals and send sensory ones. It’s not much different from wiring any other machine. Match up the right ones and it works fine for something like a hand. But if you get too big, like…” She gestured at Lett. “Like half your body, for example, then you need to put in some resistors, or the sensory input could cause overfiring. So all the nerves that are clamped need to go through this link here-- You’re not listening, are you?”

Kaston blinked. “I… It’s kind of dense stuff, isn’t it? I mean, I know some basic neuroscience, but I usually focus on the more metaphysical side. Is that what they teach in cybernetics school?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Didn’t you go?”

“No. It was the family business. In the Spike, no one cares if you’re certified or not, as long as you prove you know what you’re doing. And as long as you’ll do it for less money than it cost a licensed tech to frame their diploma.”

“The Starfinder Society has scholarships, don’t they?”

“Honestly, I think getting a license would be a waste of time at this point. I did some work for First Seeker Elsebo, and she reported it being the best tune-up she’s had in years. If she wants to send me to school based on that, fine, but she, for one, knows I don’t need it.”

“Is that what got you a criminal record? Working without a medical license?”

“Were you listening? In the Spike, no one cares. No, I was arrested for something far less lame. Campaigning for Augmented rights. I might have gotten a little… emphatic. Violent. Started a riot.”

“I…” Kaston frowned, thinking of the story about Lett’s brother. “A riot? When?”

“A few months back.”

“Oh. Never mind, then.”

“Why?”

“Just… something Scarlett told me, but that was years ago, at this point.” 

“You know you’re allowed to call her Lett, like the rest of us, right?”

He shook his head. “It seems wrong to call one of my subordinates by a nickname. When we are alone, or with friends, she is Scarlett, and when we are on duty, she is Scourgeknight Duma.”

“Hellknights never fail to blow my mind,” Senya muttered, intentionally loud enough for him to hear.

“What about us?”

“You’re so… principled. Why?”

“Because principles-- laws-- are the foundation of society. Keeping order keeps society functioning smoothly.”

“Now you sound like a Steward. Or an Abadaran,” the mechanic groused. “At this rate, though, I’d believe the Hellknights actually do a better job of keeping order than the Stewards.”

“What do you mean?”

“ _ Well _ .” Senya said the word with heavy emphasis, as though she wanted to launch into a rant, but wasn’t sure where to begin. “When we first started investigating this… Event Horizon business, we had a big old press conference. Made connections. Got our names out there. That was just before we met the two of you.” As she spoke, Senya fished out other tools, prying the broken plating off of Lett’s prosthetics. “I received a personal apology from Director-General Camulan himself. Guess what? Apparently my court date was cancelled and my case was dropped the second Event Horizon kidnapped me.”

“What… what does… Are you saying that you think the Stewards are involved?”

“I mean. Yeah. I’m not the only one, either, before you suggest coincidence.”

“I wasn’t… I’d like to see the evidence, is all. I tend to have a little more faith in the Pact Worlds’ legal system.”

“Just…” Senya made a face. “It leaves a bad taste, you know? Makes the entire underbelly of Absalom Station feel like we’re not cared for at all. Oh. You know what else I think is stupid?”

“What?”

“That the Augmented are called that when so many of us aren’t. You see this?” She raised her arm. “This gives me a chance to lead a decent life. Sure, it’s built with a power gauntlet, but I did that recently. Without that, it’s not an augmentation. It’s a prosthetic. It only augments me in the sense that it cancels out what was lost. And I’m not the only one. That’s the sort of people I was fighting alongside, Kaston. People I worked on for free even though I couldn’t afford it, because otherwise they’d be screwed out of the ability to live like everyone else of their race. There’s a kasatha couple, Mr. and Mrs. Buiut. She’s got a synthetic shoulder. It’s not really for me to know what it’s like to live with four arms. Maybe someday I’ll get rich and go crazy and add some others. But Mrs. Buiut grew up with four, until she dislocated one in a work accident and tore a muscle. A licensed tech wouldn’t even see her. Said she wasn’t worth his time. What a load of crap. How is a woman’s ability to function not worth your fucking time?”

To that, Kaston had nothing more to say. He watched mutely as Senya repaired Lett’s limbs, thinking about what the paladin had said about her brother.

_ Did she think he didn’t have the right to function because of a childish mistake? _ The devil on his shoulder, silent though it had been, stirred again.

_ It has been a long time, _ he told it insistently.  _ She is different now. She understands what it’s like to depend on her augmentations. _

_ Does she? Has she ever been without them? There is a spell to stop them, you know. Just for a few seconds. _

Revulsed at the very thought, and somewhat surprised that the female voice hadn’t chipped in, he lashed back himself.  _ Why would I? It could kill her. Even if I thought she deserved to die, that she hadn’t already been through enough in exchange for what she did to her brother, I wouldn’t strike her down as she slept. _

The devil on his shoulder went silent for a while, and just when he thought it wasn’t going to come back, it finally retaliated, in Xaevir’s voice.

_ You have been spending too much time around paladins. _

_ I was a fool to think that alone was enough to shut you up. _

And finally, the other voice came back, the female.  _ Don’t become angry. That is what your darker side wants. _

He wasn’t sure if Senya noticed when he broke down in tears, but he forgot  _ she _ was there until he finished and glanced up to find her focused on Lett’s augmentations.

"Thank you," he said, and Senya jolted, apparently having forgotten mutually about him.

"For what?"

"Giving her the ability to function."

"It's just what I do, Hellknight."


	43. Reparations

Coughing up blood, Lett stirred, awaking to the familiar backdrop of  _ Mercy’ _ s medical bay. Terrified, she tried to sit up, but she was too weak. Her cybernetics sparked dangerously.

“Don’t try to move,” Knight-Medic Ziegler said, pressing a palm against Lett’s chest. “Your augmentations are still too damaged to function. I only just managed to stop you from bleeding out, and Senya restored the vitals, but the rest of it isn’t fixed yet. Jenovere will be here soon.”

“What happened?” Lett wondered, swallowing the metallic taste in her mouth.

“I found you and several of your… companions broken and bleeding, wrapped in chaos magic, outside.”

Lett tried to sit up again, but Ziegler’s hand was still on her sternum, holding her down.

“Are they alright?”

“Is your tiefling alright, you mean?” Ziegler scowled. “Yes. He was the one who saved you.”

“I didn’t mean just him. I am responsible for the welfare of the rest of my unit as well.”

“The Starfinders are. And three of yours besides him. Another human, a kasatha, and a dwarf.”

“Only three.”

“That was all he could save.”

A door unsealed across the medical bay. Mihaluín strode in, flanked by Jenovere, but Lett's attention was still on Ziegler.

“But what  _ happened _ ? How’d we get this hurt?”

“A spell. A spell I haven’t seen in centuries. Since before the Gap.” The answer came from the elf, interrupting whatever Ziegler had been about to say.

“Why’s it been gone so long?” Lett wondered.

“That isn’t the question,” Jenovere said, unrolling her toolkit. “The question is, what brought it back, and how?”

“Both are relevant questions.” Mihaluín’s face was grave. “The fact of the matter is, it belongs to the one called the Rova. The high priest of the Devourer, who was once called Rovagug. The Rova is the only one granted its secret, and he is told to use it as many times as he can, until he destroys himself in the process.”

“So obviously we need to kick his ass,” Lett muttered, and Jenovere looked at her sharply.

“Language,” the technician said. Mihaluín usually smiled when she got fussy about such things, but his eyes barely twinkled now.

“You’re more correct than you think, Lett. Unfortunately, that is easier said than done. He puts cracks in reality wherever he goes, and they cover him up. It would take some time to track him down, if he is even reachable. The rest of these Beacons your Starfinders have been uncovering, I’m told, hold the Spawn?”

“They aren’t  _ my _ Starfinders,” Lett muttered.

“They are raising a sword against evil in their own way, though, if they are destroying the Devourer’s beasts. There is something bigger going on with the Devourer and the Azlanti. I wish I had a better grasp of what, or of the things I knew before the Gap took them away. So much of it is gone. But the Rova… he’s clear for some reason. Like I knew him personally. That probably sounds ridiculous.”

“He’s a Mindbreaker, like Kaston. They have ways of getting inside your head, dredging up your fears and clearing your memories. Maybe that’s why?”

“It could be, but I don’t think it is. Anyways, talk wastes time.  Senya’s already done some work, and Jenovere’s going to bring you back to full functionality . Get your rest, but come see me when you’re done. I’ll be in the temple.” Mihaluín gave a little salute and disappeared out of Lett’s field of vision, and Jenovere drew a few tools out of her kit.

“So…” The technician peered into Lett’s eyes, as if trying to decode something. “You and the Hellknight… are you, like, together?”

“I can’t officially date him, since he’s my superior,” Lett said. “But essentially, yes.”

Lett wasn’t sure what the look on the technician’s face meant. Jealousy, maybe, but she’d never have expected that from Jenovere, especially not in regards to Kaston. He was, as she’d pointed out, a Hellknight, and not really her type, Lett guessed. What Jenovere’s type  _ was _ was beyond her.

“Goddess guide you,” the technician finally spit out. “Make good choices, Lett. I worry for you.”

She worked in silence, collected her tools, and left, and Lett drifted off to sleep.


	44. The Worthy and the Unworthy

The temple door was closed when Lett came to it, and she pried it open and stepped through quietly, hoping not to disturb whatever was in process. The holograms had been changed, which usually marked holy days or important rituals, but she was otherwise alone. At least, she thought she was alone at first. Kaston’s helmet and armor, though, lay in one of the pews, and she found him stretched out in one a few rows back, eyes closed, murmuring something under his breath.

“I hope I am not interrupting something.”

He startled, pushing himself to a sitting position, then to his feet, then back down as the blood rushed from his head, dizzying him.

“No,” he assured her. “Not something I cannot come back to. Are the others…”

“Hyetse is up and recovered,” Lett said. “As far as Knight-Medic Ziegler tells it, he’s been that way for a day already. The other two are still out cold, though, and she won’t lend a hand to help them until all the Starfinders are back on their feet. Why?”

“Mostly, when Xaevir learns that we stayed on a cathedralship for nine days, I need an excuse that isn’t going to have me investigated for insubordination on the spot. Saying that I was held in the cathedral while the others recovered ought to work, yes?”

Lett’s eyes flickered to the holograms. “Nine days? Are… are you undergoing the Rite of Atonement?”

“It was Knight-Paladin Edamar’s idea, but yes. I thought it would make sense to apologize to Iomedae as well as to you.”

“I should be undergoing it as well.”

“You are welcome to join me.”

Lett sat alongside him.

“What happened to your hand?”

Kaston’s gaze shifted downward. “What… whatever the other Mindbreaker did to you, it planted some kind of chaos magic in all of you. I guess I resisted it for the same reason I was able to save you all from it. Devil blood is… structured, you might say. Your Knight-Medic was all in a panic that you were going to die, you and the others, but she told me that the blood of one of the planes of law would help. It was a far shot, but…”

Lett counted in her head, and Kaston cut her off before she could ask.

“There were nine of you,” he said, confirming her suspicions.

“Do you think it might have been a coincidence?”

“No.”

“Maybe you’re less cynical than I thought, then.”

“There were… things I wasn’t willing to believe,” Kaston admitted. “Like that any of the good gods gave a whit, at least about me. I’m a Thrune. Why shouldn’t I just be on the fast track back to Hell? Everyone else has wound up there, right? And me most of all, what with being part hellhound. But I started to realize that I wasn’t as damned as I thought. I wasn’t as connected back there as the rest of my family.” He looked up at the hologram. It was calibrated for the Rite of Atonement, shifting between the Eighth and Ninth Acts, and currently, was wrapping its light-forged hand in an illusory bandage. “There’s a voice in my head.” Lett gave him a look, and he quickly added, “It’s a… a thing, for some mystics. We can hear the voice of our connection. That’s what this voice is. I thought it was Abbey, for a while. It sounds Chelaxian. But what you said…”

“You think it’s her?”

“Maybe not her. But one of her servants. I know it’s too good-willed to be any devil.”

“What makes you say that?”

“It tells me I am loved.” He frowned. “Were any of her servants also Chelaxian?”

“Plenty. Most notably Saint Lymirin the Eagle-Eyed, who became her herald when her prior went missing during the Gap, but others too. Some into the time of Infernal Cheliax, many who were martyrs for their beliefs.”

“What about your namesake?”

Lett shook her head. “Probably not. She was red of hair, which earned her her name.” She flicked a wisp of her own hair. “And me mine.”

“I overheard Knight-Paladin Edamar saying that the sword he retrieved for you was hers,” Kaston said.

“It seems as though it could be.” Her fingers brushed over it thoughtfully; though it was sheathed, it gleamed with an internal light beneath her fingers. “But I had never heard the tales of her dying four times, or that her final resting place was Aucturn. Her bones are, supposedly, kept in the catacombs beneath the Basilica, but if she was only there in heart and soul… I suppose anything could have happened.” She shivered. “Four times. I can’t even imagine.”

The door clicked open at the back of the temple, and Mihaluín let himself in, coming to join them, hushing Lett’s musings.

“I am sure Paravicar Drayne has informed you by now that he is undergoing the Rite of Atonement,” the elf finally said.

“He has.”

“I think it would be best for you to join him.”

“That was the plan.”

“Good. I will not interrupt his meditation, then.” He looked meaningfully at Kaston, who nodded and sat down, and walked with Scarlett to a point in one of the eaves.

“You know how the ritual is conducted, I assume? Your father filled you in?”

Lett nodded, releasing the sword Jenovere had made for her, which was disassembled and stored in her cybernetic arm.

“The sword of my namesake is, doubtless, more powerful,” she said. “But I have not yet used it in a battle, or even a skirmish. This one, though, has seen the defeats of two Spawn of Rovagug, weakened though they certainly were.”

Mihaluín nodded, taking the sword from Lett and placing it atop the altar solemnly, murmuring a prayer and lighting two piles of incense, one on either side of it.

“Tell of all the deeds you regret since I have seen you last,” he prompted. “Leave no detail unspoken. The Inheritor knows your heart, after all.”

Lett closed her eyes, drawing to mind everything she could remember, spilling it out, emphasizing the drunken brawl and Naomni’s trial and her feelings of jealousy towards Iveren and, though it turned her cheeks nearly as flaming red as her hair, the intimate encounters she had shared with Kaston. Mihaluín listened, and nodded, and asked for clarification, and the scent and smoke of the incense drifted through the temple, reminding Lett of childhood, of chasing Adran around the inside of the Swordlight Basilica with foam play blades and shields, of Seventhday rituals that they always went early to, of the occasional wedding or funeral where she acted as an altar server and tried not to gawk at the happy couple or the body. She wept at the memories, and she was aware of Kaston’s eyes on her, and she did not care. Mihaluín offered support, and when she nodded, he wrapped his arms around her, gently embracing her.

“Forgiveness often brings tears,” he said when Lett muttered about how embarrassing her crying was. “Remember what I told you. Iomedae is a goddess of justice and mercy. She would rather help than harm you.”

Lett nodded, sniffling. Mihaluín’s gaze was half focused on her, and half distant, as if remembering something about her, or trying to piece together a puzzle.

“The rest of the Rite of Atonement is up to you,” he said. “Spend the next nine days in prayer or meditation or conversation but remain in the temple. I will bring you food, and you may sleep as you will. When it is finished, approach the altar and reclaim your weapon. I know that your apology is sincere, Lett. I hope for your sake that his is as well.”

He rose to go, and Lett opened her mouth, brushing the scabbard of the sword that hung at his side.

“What is it?”

“In the… one of the dreams from the Rova’s spell,” she began, and he interrupted her.

“Remember that those are illusions, Lett. They prey on your greatest fears.”

“I… I know.” She shook her head. “I just… it was odd. I didn’t recognize what was happening in that one, what it meant. But you were in it, and the sword you wear…”

The elf’s golden eyes were usually unreadable, but Lett saw a flicker of trepidation pass through them.

“What of it?” he wondered.

“It was broken,” Lett said. “I think… I think I had broken it, somehow.”

“That is not possible.”

“Why not, though?”

“Do you not recognize it?”

“Of course I recognize the design. I was raised in the Church—” Lett broke off, realizing what Mihaluín meant. “That… that isn’t a replica, is it?”

She placed two fingers on it, not on the scabbard but the hilt this time, and a flood of holy energy rushed through her, leaving her dazed.

“Heart’s Edge can only be destroyed in a way so incredibly improbable that even when the armies of Infernal Cheliax stole it from the Church, the worst they could do was try to corrupt it,” Mihaluín said. “A paladin must turn against the Inheritor’s herald, and the herald must surrender. There are only three of us left; before you and Jenovere, there was only me. And Lymirin is well-known for her stubbornness. She would fight to the last. I hope this is enough to quell that fear, Lett.” He had relaxed a little, but still looked troubled. “If nothing else, if she thought she would be bested, Lymirin would surrender, would let it break. She’d die again if it meant saving the Goddess.”

“Saving the Goddess? What do you mean?”

“This is a dark road, Lett,” Mihaluín warned.

“I…” Lett sighed. “I know. I just want to know.”

“Why? What about it do you want to know?”

“What that other self was trying to achieve. So that I may never do it.”

Mihaluín pressed his lips together, thinking, considering what to tell Lett. Finally, his proud shoulders drooped. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, they were stormy.

“If the herald does not surrender,” Mihaluín said, in a voice that wavered with every word, “if she is slain, and the traitor and the sword still stand… It can be used to kill Iomedae, and the wielder, theoretically, would gain her divine power. But to do so would be unspeakably evil, and besides, Iomedae would defend herself. It’s no small feat.”

Lett shivered. “I’m sorry I asked.”

“If you didn’t know that…” Mihaluín frowned. “If you didn’t, then the Rova must have. Perhaps that is not so strange, though. It concerns the breaking of an important holy artifact.” He shook his head, as if trying to clear it of dark thoughts. “It is probably nothing, yet something tells me I should be worried. But _ I _ will be worried about it, so that you can focus on your atonement. Goddess bless you and keep you, Lett. Even if you do not trust yourself, I have faith that you would never dare to strike down Lymirin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is late again, sorry! I've been feeling not-so-hot. It's here now, so I hope you enjoyed it. ♥


	45. Hair of Fire, Hair of Snow

The whispering of the River of Souls was getting stronger by the day. It was still only a whispering, but Mihaluín’s ears were especially sensitive to such things. He had worried, when he was younger, that there would be no great battles left at the end of his life, but he was wrong in that regard, as he had been in many others.  His sleep was plagued with dreams he still largely did not understand, and those that he did drove him to deep sorrow. He fought to maintain a veneer of normality around the others in his waking hours.  He stood in the commander's cabin of  _Mercy_ , staring at the mirror, and finding that the elf who stared back had tired, sunken eyes.

_ I do not betray my heart, _ he mused,  _yet it still dies. It grows heavy, weary._

He set Heart's Edge on its hooks over the head of his bed, pried off the bulkier pieces of his armor, lay down, and drifted off, only to find himself plagued with the same dreams he always was.  Scarlett,  _ his _ Scarlett, the one who had died centuries before, spoke to him, but he could not remember the language she was speaking, could not tell her that he loved her, or even that he could hear her. She cried for him, and her bloody red wings drooped. Her hair was fire, and her eyes, evergreens; she was a forest being scorched away by cleansing flame, flame that only grew as she failed to reach him.

From his sleep, he fell asleep again, and she gripped his shoulders. Her eyes were not evergreens; her eyes were one depthless sea and one empty void, spilling blood that was not hers when her sword hand bled also. Her hair was not fire, but the snow that he had always imagined falling over the Boneyard. He had never asked her, though she had returned thrice, whether it actually snowed there, but he thought it must; cemeteries were always prettier in the snow.

She wrapped him up in her arms and cried for him as though he was already dead, as he had cried for her time and again. The blood ran from her missing eye, dripping onto his chest; nine drops, always nine, always replicative of an Act from so long ago even he had not been born. The words she spoke when her hair was snow, he remembered. He called them Common, but that was not their first name.

“Come home, my love, for however much pain you are in, more awaits.”

And his response, though it varied, was most often what he told her now.

“I do not know the way to Heaven,” he would answer, for he knew, somehow, that that was the home she spoke of. “And I will not know it until I give my last in battle.”

He usually stirred awake when he had spoken to the snow-haired Scarlett, but this night was different. This night, a Scarlett whose hair was all red still, whose face was yet unchanged by maternity, waited at the end of the dreams. Her face was different, but the sliver of soul in her eyes was fierce, stubborn, brash, like the new Lett. Like the old Scarlett had been so many years ago he had nearly forgotten it.

This one spoke in a language he had forgotten he knew, but had not forgotten how to hear or to speak: the language of his parents and his ancestors, a form of Elven that had been lost to time even before the Gap.

“You know him, don’t you? The Rova, I mean.”

“I am trying to figure that out.”

“He's going to kill you,” she said suddenly, fervently, and again, tears laced her lashes. Her eyes were a wind-tossed sky, the clouds before a cyclone, screaming like a steam whistle. “He cannot break your sword, so instead, he will break your heart.”

He approached her, and unlike her archon self, he could touch her. Her hair was like maple leaves turning in the fall, and he ran his fingers over the place where her first white streak would run.

“Does it snow in the Boneyard?” he wondered, and she closed her eyes, and her tears spilled, and she choked on her breath.

“I don’t want you to find out,” she said, wrapping her arms around him. “It’s selfish, but I never want you to find out what it is like to die.”

“If you tell me whether it snows, I will not have to find out for myself.”

“Mirthal will kill you anyways,” she said, drawing back, but holding his hands, pressing her fingers into his callused palms. “But yes. It does. It was snowy there when you first found me.”

She bent forward and kissed him, the touch of a feather on his lips, and he awoke still paralyzed from the dreams, crying as motion and sensation returned to his limbs.

“Mirthal,” he murmured. “Why do I know that name?”


	46. The Lost Lullaby

In the chapel, Lett had drifted off, but she didn’t realize it until she awoke to Kaston singing.

She didn’t recognize most of the words, but their sharpened edges told her he was singing in Chelaxian. The tune and tempo said it was a lullaby, although catching words like  _ darkness _ and  _ hate _ , Lett couldn’t fathom why it would help anyone sleep.

For a while, she lay as silently as she could and listened. His voice was lovely, but more importantly, it was raw. It wasn’t taken to uncannily perfect pitch by tuner-correctors, like the pop icons who performed in the Hamisfore Theatorium, not that Lett had ever been to a live show there.

He came to the end of a verse and picked up the tune again, mumbling over words he’d maybe forgotten, and catching on herself, she hummed along for half a phrase before he stopped, trailing off into silence, reminding Lett of Adran standing on the counter reaching for sweets when he realized their father was behind him.

“How long were you awake?”

“One verse,” Lett promised, propping herself up on her elbows. “I didn’t know you sang.”

“I don’t. Not seriously.”

Lett smiled. “That sounded pretty serious to me.”

He turned back around, keeping his gaze from hers. “What did you want, Scarlett?”

“Did Abbey sing you that?”

A look of bitterness crossed his face. “How did you know she sang to me?”

“When you transformed, a few nights ago, Iveren asked if I could sing. And it was in your memories, if only fleetingly.”

“Iveren is dead, you know.”

“I know.”

“I’ve been asked to take her place as Paravicar.”

“But Xaevir doesn’t  _ ask _ .”

“You are sharpening up to the way Hellknights tend to run things.”

“Can he even do that? Aren’t you royalty?”

“For reasons I hope I’ve established, I tend not to flex that. Besides, the title of Paravicar gives me more freedom than it takes away.”

“Back to the song,” Lett prompted, though she saw that Kaston was scowling.

“What about it is so important to you?”

“You can tell a lot about a person by the sorts of things that occupy their minds.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be read like a book.” Kaston’s hair flared red, then yellow, and a furious fire was in his eyes. “I’ve showed you so much about myself. More than Iveren or even Xaevir knows. Why do you need to know more?”

“I want to be able to help when you are hurting.” She frowned. “If I could show you my memories the way you showed me yours… I would.”

He took her hands then, all of a sudden, lifting them up. “Then try.”

“What do you mean, try?”

“You should be able to do it, to some extent. A paladin’s oath is a mystical connection, in a way.”

“Is there some technique thing I should know?”

Kaston squeezed her hand, and she understood that she wouldn’t be able to show her mind to him in exactly the same way he showed his to her. Every mind was different, and she had to find the commonalities. 

“Show-off,” she said, and he smirked and lifted her hands, placing them against his temples, and instructed her, “Think of something you remember clearly.”

And so she showed him the forging of her oath. She showed him the panic and the frost creeping across the void-shield, and he felt her short breath, her cold fingers, her desperation, though he did not clearly see the details. Her prayer, the energy of her newfound powers, felt familiar to him.

Her hands lifted away, and he met her eyes.

“Did it work?” she wondered, uncertain.

“You will need to practice. But yes. I didn’t realize… You and Jenovere are close, then.”

“Mihaluín is my mentor, but Jenovere is my peer,” Lett agreed.

They sat in silence then, lost in their own thoughts for a while.

“It’s called the Lightbringer’s Lullaby,” Kaston said, startling Lett out of her reverie. “It… was written by a revolutionary, I guess. A dissident of the Thrune Ascendancy, so it’s always bothered me that Abbey sang it.”

“Yeah, ‘Lightbringer’s Lullaby’ doesn’t exactly sound like a song that supports the Infernal Chelaxian regime.” Lett chuckled. “How does it go?”

“You heard me singing it earlier.”

“I speak very little Old Chelaxian,” Lett reminded him, “and I have trouble understanding some songs that are entirely in Common.”

Kaston sighed, speaking in a steady tone, signaling that he was saying the lines of the poem.

“ _ There was a child, and he was born in darkness _

_In Hell’s grasp born, to Hell destined to fall_

_ His father’s hate, so tightly wrapped around him _

_His mother’s love, a light he never knew_

_ “He heard his name, ‘twas spoken in hushed corners _

_His father’s hate, to Hell commends his soul_

_ His footsteps turned, and into black Knights’ shelter _

_He tried to run, his eyes upon his back._

_ “Twas from the front, that then his father trapped him _

_His wicked plot, enacted on the child_

_ No scream was heard, not even a faint whisper _

_The child’s life, to Hell was bound in full._

“Those are the verses I remember most clearly.”

“That’s a terrible story. Why’s it called the Lightbringer’s Lullaby if this guy just went to Hell?”

“It’s a long song.” Kaston shrugged. “I don’t know how many verses there were. But he isn’t the only one featured in it.”

“But he’s the one Abbey sang about.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know the other verses well enough to compare them. I assume it’s mostly stories of hope, from the title, but if that one has a happy ending, I’ve never heard of it.”

“If I ever stumble across anything of the sort…”

Kaston smiled wistfully. “I don’t expect you will. It was written pre-Gap, after all.”

Lett shrugged. “I like good endings. Not always happy ones. Sometimes the hero dies or gets hurt, but it’s always for some greater cause. I’ll look for a good ending to your lullaby. You deserve as much.”


	47. Uneasy Descent

The ninth day came for Kaston sooner than it did for Lett, but he agreed to remain at her side while she completed her own atonement. She doubted it was all a friendly gesture, though; she could hear what she thought was fear in his voice. The last two days of Lett’s atonement contained several prayers on his behalf.

When she stood to take up her sword, though, he stood with her. She knelt before the altar before approaching it, and he followed suit, and side by side they claimed their weapons.

She wasn’t sure what she expected, but her sword and his scourge hadn’t changed in any visible way. Still, as she replaced it in its quickdraw sheath, she felt a sense of relief, of familiarity, and teared up, just for a second.

“Back to the Citadel, then?” she said after a while, and Kaston nodded.

Hyetse, Scourgeknight Ayedzef, and Armiger Qualf waited for them; the Armigers were practically rigid under Ayedzef’s keen eyes. He, though, snapped to attention when Kaston arrived, wearing Iveren’s badge of office.

“It’s true, then?” Ayedzef prompted. “Paravicar Iveren is dead?”

“She is.”

“Then I await your orders, sir.”

“Knight-Major Jenovere will escort us back to our ship.”

Jenovere, who had come with them, bowed slightly.

“And the dead?”

“They are in stasis and loaded on the Shieldcraft I will use to return you to your ship.” This answer came from Jenovere. “At the request of Paravicar Drayne, no funerary services have yet been conducted for them, though the Knights of Golarion certainly do not lack the capability.”

The Knight-Technician’s voice was formal and detached, and Lett wondered for a moment whether she had done something.

 _It’s just the Hellknights,_ she decided. _Five of us and one of her? Anyone would be set off by those odds._

Still, after the others had boarded the ship, and before Lett lifted her helmet to seal it on, she paused, brushing Jenovere lightly on the arm before the Knight-Technician also turned to go. Jenovere twitched, startled, and before Lett could stop herself, Lett blurted out, “Something _is_ bothering you.”

“Of course something is bothering me.” Jenovere looked straight into Lett’s eyes. “I was the one who repaired you. I saw firsthand what the Hellknights did to you. The broken bones, the burns, and some scars that weren’t as obvious. We’re sword-sisters, Lett. We’re supposed to look out for each other, defend each other. How can I look out for you when you run back into the arms of the people that hurt you?”

“You can do as you’ve done. You can be there for me, and for them, even if they don’t deserve your help. You can listen. You can allow me to fix my own mistakes. And you can pray.”

Jenovere leaned forward, lacing her fingers through Lett’s, placing her free hand on the hilt of the Sword of Saint Scarlett at her waist.

“You walk through darkness. May her light be with you until the dawn comes.”

“And with you through the darkness you may not see.”

When she was done speaking, she was startled to find that the hand that had been on her sword was on her cheek, to find Jenovere’s lips meeting hers, ever-so-briefly. Lett drew back, eyes wide.

“I…” she stammered. “You… you know… Kaston and I…”

Jenovere narrowed her eyes, and they flashed in the light. “He hurt you once,” she said. “I will be here when he hurts you again.”

“He is a better person than you give him credit for. He underwent the Rite of Atonement with me.”

“He could have been doing it to lull you into trusting him.”

“He _survived_ the Rite of Atonement. Despite his infernal heritage and the title he holds. The insincere don’t survive that.” Lett paused, took a breath. “He saved nine people, myself included, in replication of an Act. Please don’t use his status as a Hellknight to justify your bitterness. I respect you, Jenovere. I love you, but you’re my sword-sister. And that’s how I love you. Like a sister.”

“When he hurts you again…” She squeezed the hand that was still laced with hers and released it, and although she boarded the ship at Lett’s side, neither of them spoke again while she guided it towards the place where they had landed their Interdictus, transferred the bodies, and flew the Shieldcraft off into the distance.

Lett watched her go with misty eyes nonetheless, hand on her sword, feeling the bond of a prayer that had been much more than it had seemed. For a moment, as they took off, she entertained the thought. Jenovere, like her, had been virtually raised in the Church of Iomedae. The sense of familiarity, of nostalgia, Lett always felt in a temple was stronger with the Knight-Technician present as well.

_Does it really matter to me what’s down there? It’s not like I feel anything either way._

She caught herself off guard with the thought, that she _could_ be in a relationship with Jenovere, that the Knight-Technician was clearly open to it.

“Credit for your thoughts?” Kaston sat down beside her, tossing a disposable credstick between his fingers, and she winced, trying to decide what to tell him. The guilt of even the thought of being with Jenovere settled in as her eyes traced his face. She was startled to see the bags under his eyes.

“I’ll exchange them for yours instead,” she decided.

He glanced at Hyetse and Armiger Qualf, who were engaging in a holographic war simulator. Scourgeknight Ayedzef was in his assigned quarters, sleeping; he was still recovering, and Kaston had allowed him whatever time he needed in a display of mercy better befitting a Knight of Golarion than a Paravicar.

“I… honestly, I’m scared.” He spoke quietly, but Hyetse and Armiger Qualf were engaged in the setup of their battle, placing tokens on the table that were translated into holographic starships. “As a Signifier, even as a Paralictor, I was something of a nobody. I had no sort of public image, only the reputation of the Hellknights, maybe of our specific Order if whoever I was dealing with was from another one, or really knew what they were talking about. As a Paravicar, though, under a Lictor who was once Master of Blades… I’m the Order’s authority on magic, and I’m one of three who represent it in name and in face. I’m afraid of the responsibility that carries. I’m afraid that someone will find out who I am, and that it will mean something to them. I’m afraid of rubbing Xaevir the wrong way.” He glanced towards the back of the ship. “He and Iveren… well, I showed you, she trained him. He trusted her for a long time, because she always had the answers, even when he was raised to Lictor. But the Rova—I can only assume it was the Rova—attacked him, and she had no answer for him. He sent her out here to die, Lett, and she did. What if I can’t come up with the answers he needs? What if I don’t come up with the ones he wants? What if he only put me in this position because he wants me dead?”

“I don’t know Xaevir well,” Lett said, “but I dislike jumping to the conclusion that anyone is acting on the life of another person. The best advice I can give is to pray for guidance. That’s what I do.”

“He’s the last one who knows I’m a Thrune. Besides you now, I guess, but I trust you. I trust him about as far as I can lift him with my psychokinetic hand, which is zero inches.”

“If you’re paranoid about him, you only open up more opportunities for him to strike, if he really does mean to hurt you.”

Kaston’s shoulders slumped. “I suppose. What about your thoughts? This was an exchange, right?”

“I was thinking about Jenovere.” Lett shook her head, trying to force her jumble of thoughts to fall into place. “She… she kissed me. Just so you know. Not even a big kiss, no tongue, just lips. I said I had you and she said you were going to hurt me again.”

“I wish I could say that that was a lie.”

“She startled me. I didn’t know she was... into girls.”

“It was out of your control, though. You didn’t ask her to kiss you, and if you’re not into girls, say no. She’s a Knight of Golarion. They don’t seem like the type to push it.”

“That’s the thing. I don’t know if I _am_ into girls. Or into you. Or into anyone. I don’t feel anything, not physically, so I don’t know what I’m into. I was thinking, before you interrupted me, that maybe I could try. With a girl. Probably with her. But I realize now how dumb that sounds. You were my first, after all.”

“Scarlett, if I don’t make you happy… you don’t need to stay with me.”

“It’s not your fault, though. No one can make me feel satisfied, at least I assume. That wasn’t your fault.”

“But it was.”

“No. Not really. If it was, it was through a chain of events sparked by other people, too. Besides…” She wrapped her arms around him, feeling the warmth of his body. “You found a way. At least to share your satisfaction.”

“Still. If you want to try… with her, I mean… I won’t be offended.”

They fell into an awkward silence. Across the room, the Armigers were using a laser scanner to measure the distance one of the holographic ships could shoot.

“I will be in my quarters if you need me,” Kaston said after a while. “Otherwise… you might lend the Armigers a watchful eye. Or a third faction, if you're into war games.”

So for a while, Lett joined them at the holo-table, pulling up a pair of Black Star tokens and challenging some ships that had broken off by themselves. When the pair were defeated, though, she stopped by the bridge to check the system status, then Kaston’s room. He didn’t answer at first, so she retreated to her own, but he pinged at her door not much later, dressed in a clean skinsuit and with wet hair. Steam curled off the red streaks, and Lett realized she didn’t know what to say. The awkward silence was preserved for a few seconds, and then he wondered, “That was you, right? That pinged while I was in the shower?”

She nodded.

“What’d you need?”

The blush crept up her neck. “I… I’m sorry I said anything about Jenovere.”

“Don’t be. You were being honest.”

She smiled, trying to force the blush back, but it only intensified.

“I think,” he said, “we should speak in the privacy of my quarters or yours.” He raised his eyebrows meaningfully, glancing towards where the Armigers were still playing their war game.

Lett stepped back through the doorway, and Kaston followed.

“The apology wasn’t all you had to say, was it?”

“I… I don’t know if talking about it has got you all stirred up,” Lett began. “But even if I know I won’t feel anything, I still want to.” She reached for the fasteners on his skinsuit, on the back of his neck. “May I?”

“Please do.”

She unsnapped them one by one, bending down to reach the last few, remembering how much shorter he was than her. A bulge in the front of the suit told her he was already on board, and she realized abruptly that, despite giving him the occasional handjob, she hadn’t seen him unclothed since he had raped her. As soon as she thought of it, the memories were there, not just the real ones but the constructed ones too. She wasn’t sure which set was more painful.

She paused where she was, in the middle of unrolling the suit over his torso, and her expression must have betrayed her, because Kaston wondered, “What’s wrong?”

She shook her head. “Sometimes I wish I could lie. It would keep me out of trouble. But you’re too good at telling, anyways.”

Lifting her hands away from where they had paused over his midsection, he gave them a slight squeeze. “If it is anything to do with me, I won’t be offended.”

Lett reached up, brushing one of his temples, trying to direct the memories while they were vivid, trying to sort the real ones from the false. He exhaled slowly, eyes closed, nodding.

“We can stop.”

“I don’t want to let you down.”

“You won’t be letting me down.”

“Yes, I will,” she insisted, grasping at his skinsuit again.

“Some things are more important than my sexual pleasure, Scarlett, and your health is one of them.” He lifted her hands away. “If you aren’t ready for this, I won’t give my consent.”

“That didn’t stop _you_ then, did it?” The sentence flew off her lips before she had thought about it, and she saw the streaks in his hair flare up.

“And here I thought you had forgiven me.” He tugged the arms of his skinsuit back on all at once, in stiff motions, and reached his hands around his back with surprising flexibility, re-fastening the snaps. “But I understand that the tensions are high, and the memories are vivid, tonight. I wish I had better ones to give you, but I don’t.”

Still, when he reached out and touched her hand, when he kissed her lightly on the cheek, she saw the closest thing he had to good memories. She caught a flicker of Abbey singing the Lightbringer’s Lullaby, her own face, and to her surprise, a few moments of the Rite of Atonement. The door closed behind him, and she wanted to chase after him, to draw up moments of victory and joy to show him, but something held her back.

She tossed and turned on her bed for a while, but when she finally managed to sleep, it was without dreams until the ship’s deceleration as it docked woke her.


	48. Burden

Lett had seen more than one funeral with the Knights of Golarion, but never one among the Hellknights. Mostly, she knew, they didn’t bother with much ceremony. The Scourgeknights and the Armiger who had died were cremated, and Lett had no immediate assignment, so she watched, and she prayed without speaking. Kaston found her staring into the eerily-tinted pyre, the tears in her eyes never collecting enough to fall.

“Would they have given me a pyre?” she wondered, making Kaston jump. He hadn’t realized she knew he was there. “Or would they have left my body to be torn to pieces and let Hell be my pyre?”

“If I had had the chance, I would have come back for you.”

“But they wouldn’t have given you the chance. They  _ didn’t _ give you the chance.”

“No.”

He drew up alongside her. She was still watching the flames, her eyes reflecting their red glare. He winced.

“Of course Iveren will get some kind of fancy funeral?”

“She’ll be burned with real hellfire, as was likely laid out in the terms of her contract.”

“She was…”

“Contracted with a devil. Yes. She gave it ample consideration, but still didn’t listen to my warnings, in the end. It’s not unusual for a Signifier, though it’s less common now than it was before the Gap, I’m told.” He paused. “It’s said even the dead scream when they are burned with hellfire. I never wanted to find out whether it was true. I was content to believe the screams I heard on Embroi came from the living.”

“You’re attending her funeral then?”

“I am required to, as her successor, or I wouldn’t. You aren’t, but you could come.”

“I’m not sure I want to,” she began, and then looked at the expression on his face, and added to her sentence. “But if you want me there for moral support…”

“Moral support. That’s an oddly appropriate phrase.” His tone was light, but he didn’t laugh, or even smile, before it darkened again. “I understand if you don’t want to. Open flames are nasty enough as is, and hellfire is worse.”

“Who decides who’s replacing you as Paralictor?”

“I do, technically. But there are politics involved. If I chose you, plenty of your seniors might start literally raising Hell. If I chose a Scourgeknight rather than a Signifier, the Master of Blades might think I’m trying to suck up to him. If I choose a male, now that the entire triumvirate of this Order’s major officers are also male, I may be called a bigot. If I choose someone too obvious, I may be seen as a pushover. And all those things even more so because I, myself, was rather junior to be chosen as Paravicar. No one will question Xaevir’s choice; they’ll turn that scrutiny on me.”

“Do you ever consider starting without the assumption that everyone is out to get you?”

“It isn’t wise to be too trusting when everyone around you, everyone you command, has been trained for their whole adult lives to summon and reason with devils.”

Lett considered his words; he made a fair point. Finally, she shifted the subject. “I'm sorry. I was trying to be helpful. And speaking of helpful... if you need to... unwind... later, you may call on me.”

“That’s another thing. As Paravicar, I’m in indirect command of the Signifiers. I’m no longer your superior. For me to call on you would be…” He winced. “Unprofessional.”

“Is there a way I could apply to be a Signifier instead?”

“You would have to prove your summoning prowess,” Kaston reminded her. “In almost direct violation of your paladin oath, I'd expect.”

“Right.” She scowled. “No way I could use my paladin abilities themselves?”

“I would be the authority on that,” Kaston began, and cut her off before she could get her hopes up. “And to transfer you to Signifier based on abilities granted to you by your faith in a god of Heaven would raise questions, if not open dissent, especially given my connection with you. Your abilities would have to speak for themselves.”

“What if I summoned archons rather than devils?”

“I’m sure that would go over well with the  _ Hell _ knights,” Kaston said flatly. “Do you want my advice, Scarlett? Keep your head down and your hand on your sword, and leave as soon as your month is up. You have what, a few days? Four?”

He made the calculation sound nonchalant, but it was exactly correct, leading Lett to believe he had been counting. She nodded, and he winced, as if only now realizing that she was about to go.

“I love you,” he added. “In case you didn’t know.”

“I knew.” She smiled wistfully. “I love you back.”

He left her staring into the last of the pyre, and was surprised that she showed up when the Paravicar was burned. If the dead did scream when hellfire burned them, though, it was a silent scream, or one that he couldn’t hear. He flinched every time the flames flared up and hoped Xaevir, standing at his side, didn’t notice.

Lett was gone by the time he thought to look for her, filling him with both trepidation and relief. When he went to move his things to the Paravicar’s quarters, though, he found her waiting by the door, silently, resting but snapping to attention as her superiors walked by.

She must have read the expression on his face, because she provided, “I was sent to your chambers personally by the Master of Blades.”

Kaston’s eyebrows crinkled. “Why?”

“Because he’s not an idiot. He knows what’s going on between us.”

He frowned, conflicted, finally deciding, “If at any point you become uncomfortable, Scarlett, please tell me. If, despite what Master of Blades Akarik thinks, you are not in the mood, you are dismissed. He knows little of human biology and less of psychology.”

“I left you frustrated last night. You, and myself.”

The worry was still clear on Kaston’s face, but he held the door open for Lett. Her hands went to his collar, beneath to his neck, cold against his skin. He had promised himself he would push her away if she seemed off, but that seemed distant and irrelevant now, as she unfastened the clips and zippers that held his robe shut, then the ones that stretched his carbonskin tight. She unrolled it, and unlike the previous night, she didn’t stop. She barely flinched as she peeled it over his chest, his hips, then his feet. On her knees, she stayed, looking  _ up _ at him as she had never done before. Her eyes were wide, as though she was scared or sad, and though the concern lining Kaston’s face didn’t disappear, he found himself watching as she blinked; as her eyelashes, barely visible against her pale skin, batted against each other and returned to their place crowning those muddy-green pools. Entranced, he didn’t notice that she had moved up until she took him in her mouth, startling him. He jumped, and like a wounded animal, she drew back, and both catching their breath, Kaston murmured, “Sorry.”

“N-no. You’re fine. You startled me. That’s all.”

He laughed quietly, just a rush of air through his nostrils. “Likewise.”

She looked up again, and her face was nearly as red as her hair, furiously flushed with color. “I—if you don’t want me to…”

“I’m not going to question you, Scarlett.” He smiled, running one hand over her head, resting his fingertips on her shoulder. “It all feels good.”

The blush subsided, just a little, and she moved back in, and the whole of his attention was consumed by the slow blinking of her eyes and the sensation of her lips and teasing tongue. His blood continued to rush, and he braced himself against his bed, crumpling and melting and forming beneath her hands which traced along his legs, his butt, his back. With a brush of his fingers, he shared the moment of climax, and she, though she had choked a little, startled, melted with him. She swallowed what she could, but a few drops hung from her quivering lips until, a few minutes later, she collected herself and wiped them away.

“Is that what you needed?” Kaston wondered. “Before you leave again?”

“I didn’t  _ need _ it.” Her voice was soft. “But it was nice. I wish you could come with me.”

“I know. But I’m ever more tightly bound to the Order of the Scourge.”

Unsteadily, she stretched a leg out, and Kaston helped her to her feet. “Hell knows you’re so close to escaping not just its grasp but its reach. But now Heaven knows it too.”

“I’d hate to be presumptuous enough to think there was some kind of celestial war being waged on my behalf.”

“I don’t think it would be terribly presumptuous.” Lett combed her fingers through his hair, savoring the tingling burn. “I would wage a war for you.”

“You’re different.”

She cracked a smile. “Maybe I am.”

“Did the Master of Blades give you any specific instructions?”

“Just that I was to report to you. Why?”

“This bed is more than big enough for two.” Kaston shifted up onto it. “I would like if you would stay. Just to sleep, before you go.”

Lett unclasped the remaining plates of her armor, laying them by the bed’s side. “How could I say no?”

She climbed up over him, lacing her fingers with his, sinking into the luxurious mattress, and mouthed a prayer of hope and of thanks as they drifted off to sleep.


	49. Special Operations

“Reporting as ordered, sir.”

Master of Blades Akarik glanced up from his datapad, and a flicker of fear ran through Lett.

_ He won’t protect me like Kaston does. He could send me on a suicide mission with a word, _ she realized, surveying him, though she didn’t really believe the kasatha was that sort of person.

“It seems my status as your commander is only a formality,” he said, using one of his free hands to tap a chip against Lett’s comm unit. “The Paravicar has a request for you, a mission that he tells me will take up the rest of your month with us. He requests that you meet him at the docks.”

Lett wasn’t sure what to say, but as the silence grew more and more awkward, she broke it with an, “Understood, sir.”

“Lictor Xaevir informed him that he would need my permission. I granted it, of course. You two are… mates, in a manner of speaking, are you not?”

Lett didn’t answer verbally, but her face flushed bright red, and Akarik seemed to take the hint.

“I apologize. I forget that humans do not speak openly about such things. But given the circumstances, I do not wish to be the one to come between you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You may report to him when you see fit.”

“Is there anything else you have for me, sir?”

“No. You may go on your way.”

She found Kaston preparing a four-person shuttle, known as a Whiplash, for their journey. He didn’t notice her at first; his attention was on the preflight checklist.

“Where are we headed?”

He startled, though only a little, nearly bumping his head on the wing he had ducked under to check one of the sensors. “Eox.”

“Why there? What business do we have on Eox?”

“We’re meeting someone. I’ll give you more details when we’re enroute, but I’m a bit busy right now. I don’t suppose you’re a certified pilot?”

“Not for this thing.”

“Well, having an extra pair of hands won’t hurt. Do you see that flag hanging there?” He pointed to a bright red ribbon hanging from a sensor cover, labeled  _ Remove Before Flight _ in Infernal. “There are seven more of those. They should unstick if you pull up on the flags.”

Lett nodded and jumped into helping him ready the ship, anxious about their journey but silent except when responding to orders. A sense of dread grasped her, that whatever they were doing was dangerous or beyond her level of expertise, and that perhaps  _ that _ was what it meant to really be a Hellknight, to never know what was coming next, to be forced into blind faith in a superior who might have no concern for your life.

_ Except, of course, he  _ does _ have concern for my life.  _ She grasped onto that thought, a thread of hope, and walked around the shuttle once more before boarding. They set their course for Eox, not through the Drift but by regular space. The computers estimated their journey would take a day and a half, and they passed time by playing hologram games and doing combat exercises and just sitting close together talking, reveling in each other’s body heat and scent and shape.

“You said you would tell me what our business was once we were enroute,” Lett prompted finally.

Kaston’s face darkened, and he held out a card to her, black on one side and silver on the other. On the black side, a glossy rose stood out against the matte finish. On the silver, a few words were scrawled:

_ Xiaoyu Feng _

_ Cleric of Pharasma, Scion of the Boneyard _

_ Current Station: Whippoorwill Point, Eox _

Lett stared at it for a few seconds before realizing what it meant. “This… is about Abbey, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

She passed the card back, frowning, and said, “If it will help you find closure, I’m glad to come along.”

“I can only hope it will.”

The conversation died there, but it still hung between them in silence until Lett proposed, “Should we go, like, spar or something?”

Kaston nodded, relieved, pushing himself off the seat and offering a hand to help Lett up before realizing she was already to her feet. The silence between them subsided as they called shots, as the tongues of his scourge sparked against her sword or bounced off her phase shield with a little  _ thwick _ , as their armored feet thudded against a floor insulated for that very purpose. Their spar turned into a dance. He wrapped her sword into a snare of barbed lines and she spun over her shoulder to free it, continuing the turn to block his next swing. The tongues were tangled, though, and she gained the advantage, cutting towards him. He tugged on them with a gauntleted hand, trying to free them, and coming up to block far too late. She tried to slow her swing, closing her eyes, hoping she wouldn’t really hurt him…

And she felt the clang of metal on metal, something more substantial than the handle of the scourge or a plate of his armor. There was force behind it, as if he was pushing back with a sword, but he didn’t have a sword. She opened her eyes, seeking an explanation, and found him just as stunned as her, holding a sword in the same dark metal as his scourge, with red plasma glowing along the flat of the blade.

“Where did that…” she started to wonder, at the same time he spoke.

“It just… changed?” He frowned, turning it over. “It was a scourge, a second ago.”

“Like, it turned into the sword?”

He nodded. “Does yours do that?”

“Uh… mine’s already a sword.”

“But does it change into anything else?”

“Not that I’m aware of. What does it say?”

“Say?” He took the blade from where it had clashed against hers, and she lowered hers also. There was, indeed, writing along the side, in what he thought might have been Chelaxian, but an old dialect. “I don’t know. I can’t make out all the words. It’s Imperial, I think.”

“Hold it still,” Lett said, peering at the inscription. “It’s Imperial, all right. ‘I will strive to emulate her perfection.’ It’s part of my oath. I know it well.”

“You’re telling me my scourge has now converted to the Church of Iomedae?”

Lett chuckled. “Not the weapon itself. It’s an inanimate object. Or, at least, it was. If it’s changing forms… How’d you do it?”

“Instinct?” Kaston guessed. “I saw your sword coming for my face and wished I had something more substantial to block with. Even if you can heal me, it is a little startling.”

“What if you wanted a scourge instead?”

“That’s not a difficult request,” Kaston said. “I don’t even know how to use a sword.”

In his hand, the weapon shifted back into the nine-tongued whip.

“What about other stuff? A gun? A tactical knife?”

He concentrated on it for a second, then said, “I don’t think so. Just the sword.”

Lett sheathed her own, murmuring something beneath her breath. Her eyes picked up a faint yellowish-blue glow, and her breath caught in her throat, seeing something he couldn’t. Her hand brushed the handle of the scourge, and he could have sworn he felt it move.

“So it  _ is _ animate?” he guessed, and Lett nodded.

“She gave you an archon. Not a very strong one, but it’ll grow.”

“It knows… what I am?”

“Probably. But it’s acting on orders, and besides, if there’s any real evil in you, it’ll try to coax it out and purge it.”

“So I have a guardian angel.”

“If you want to call it that.”

“Does it have a name?”

“Why don’t you ask?”

“It seems…” He gritted his teeth. “I don’t know. Stupid. To talk to my scourge.”

Lett smirked. “I’m sure it’d be happy to turn into a sword again, if that would help.”

“Scarlett…”

“Sorry. I’ll be serious. This is me, being serious. Just try. Talk to it.”

He mustered his wits and directed his thoughts to the weapon in his hands, as though trying to mindlink with it, not expecting the response he was given. A flood of thoughts came over him, none his own, of battles, of victory, of valiant defenses, of hope, of nights alight with lanterns and torches, of reinforcements. He had lost his footing, but he came to his senses to find Lett bending over him, the worry on her face melting into excitement.

“I-it talked back,” he said, still a little stunned.

“Did you get its name?”

“His name is Soren,” Kaston said without really thinking about it, and then realizing he’d never been told specifically, “I don’t know how I know that. How do I know that?”

“Hanging around with spirits of good makes you prone to little miracles,” Lett said, taking his hand and pulling him to his feet. “Something you’ll need to get used to.”

“In time,” Kaston said.  “Maybe. It’s hard to believe I’ll ever be used to…” The weapon shifted forms a few more times.

Lett laughed. “That’s fair. You didn’t grow up in the Church.”

His mind had been wandering, but her comment directed his thoughts to her family, to her brother, and back to Cathedralship  _ Mercy _ ’s medical bay and his conversation with Senya.

“I’d been meaning to ask…” He paused. “Sorry, I know this is a bit of a leap, but Senya mentioned… while you were still passed out from the Rova’s spell… that she thought there was something fishy going on with the Stewards.”

Lett shrugged. “As you’re well aware, they rejected me.” She frowned. “I… one of the things I thought of during our atonement was that I need to stop blaming Adran for that. It’s not his fault.”

“I think Senya would argue the same. Not that I’m trying to invalidate your statement. I agree. Blaming others for problems you could have prevented very rarely solves any. Blaming them for problems you couldn’t only makes you upset with each other for no reason.” He frowned. “But if they didn’t reject you for something Adran did… why  _ did  _ they reject you?”

“The reason on the report was ‘Family Record.’” Lett shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe my dad told them to turn me down because he knew what I’d done. Maybe it was something to do with my mom, in which case I know even less about it. She left home in the middle of the night when I was about two, chartered a ship to Eox, and proceeded to die in a gladiatorial match. She had her reasons, and maybe that had to do with the Stewards’ reasons, but whether that means they’re doing anything fishy…” She shrugged. “Maybe Adran knows more. I should… talk to him. I say I haven’t gotten the chance, but really, I’ve been dragging my feet.”

“Nine days of meditation turns up a lot of unprecedented thoughts. I’ll share some of mine, if you share some of yours,”  Kaston said. “About the Stewards, or Adran, or if you want to talk about your mom. First things first, you deserve to know about the rest of what happened to Abbey. Much of it will go without saying, when this little journey is over. Which, well, it’s barely beginning. W e should be just about to Eox.”  He paused. “I’m sorry if it brings up painful memories.”

“No, it doesn’t. I… I don’t remember enough about my mom for it to hurt.”

"That's... I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Lett stared at the approaching horizon. "Focus on landing. We'll have time to talk."


	50. In the House of the Dead

Their rendezvous point turned out to be a huge spine of rock jutting out from the edge of a cliff. Several chunks that had apparently broken off were held about its end by some unknown magic, and above it all, Eox’s eerie, smog-choked sky. Kaston sealed his helmet before exiting the ship, and motioned for Lett to do the same. They passed through a gate in a glimmering whitish force field, though, and then he removed it, offering a bow to the person that waited there. Lett hadn’t noticed him take a small cargo container from their ship, but he carried it in one hand. Unsure of the protocol surrounding the situation, she also removed her helmet and bowed.

“You bring a stranger with you,” commented the person before them, whom Lett recognized by voice as Feng; his accent was distinct.

“She is a stranger to you, but not to me. This is Scarlett.”

“One of your subordinates?”

“Only among the Hellknights. When she is with the Knights of Golarion, as she should be, she is my equal.”

Feng looked as surprised by this statement as Scarlett felt, but nodded. “She will be accompanying us?”

“She will.”

“And here I thought this was a private matter.” The Pharasmin’s tone was chiding. He held out a hand, and Kaston unfolded the cargo package, sliding the packing material into an extradimensional pack he carried at his waist. The contents were a silver vase, with a carrying chain on either side almost like a censer, and three perfectly black roses. Feng lifted it by the chain and drew out a rose, raising it as though to smell it, though Lett didn’t hear him breathe. “Lovely as ever. Thank you. Now, do you care to explain why she is here?”

Lett was about to speak for herself, to say,  _ Because he trusts me _ , but Feng knocked down his hood and a chill went through her. He was as she remembered from Kaston’s mindlink, almond-shaped eyes and graphite-colored skin, but his pupils were lined with a ring of white that shifted size with them.

“She is my witness and my advisor,” Kaston said. He looked agitated, and the magma-like streaks in his hair flared bright.

“Fine, then. As long as she does not disrupt what we have agreed upon.” Feng delivered the statement so matter-of-factly that Lett wasn’t sure whether it was a threat. “You’ll keep your distance, and your silence, unless told otherwise. This is a rather delicate operation.” He paused. “But you have at least arrived in time. We’ll do as we agreed tomorrow.”

Kaston nodded. “Shall we stay on our ship, or do you have somewhere?”

“We’ve prepared a room for you, but not for your guest.”

“I can remain on the ship, if…”

“We will share.” Kaston interrupted Lett almost as soon as she started talking.

Lett had a scattering of other questions, but she kept them to herself, her tongue stilled by Feng’s unwavering gaze, and followed Feng and Kaston as they stepped deeper into the hangar. A pair of ships, black where the light hit them and white where it didn’t, loomed to either side; she hadn’t noticed them in the shadows.

The room where they were to stay had no windows, for which Lett was thankful. The walls were black velvet broken up by a pattern of glowing swirls in pulsating blue and violet, and the bed was made up with simple white sheets. There was enough space for both of them to stretch out, but Kaston, apparently, had business with Feng, and the Pharasmin did not seem keen on bringing Lett in on it. So, alone, surrounded by silence, she drifted off, and slept for a while, not long enough to consider herself well-rested but long enough that she lost all track of time. The clocks set into her visor and comm unit provided no solace; they all displayed null values. She turned over, and found that Kaston had returned, and sat on a white leather ottoman in the corner of the room, watching her with intent eyes that seemed to reflect red in the low light.

“How long has it been?”

“Long enough for you to have awoken on your own. I’ve come to learn that time stretches oddly on some parts of Eox, especially where the Boneyard is concerned.”

“You’ve been here before?”

“Yes, a few times. Feng and I have been planning this for years, knowing we’d have a small window of possibility even if Abbey did agree to it.” 

“So she called you here?”

“If Feng is to be believed, and I have little choice but to believe him.”

“He can speak with the dead?”

“As much as anyone can, perhaps more. He’s a duskwalker. He is touched by the Boneyard in much the same way as I’m touched by Hell. And he is an enlightened mystic, so old he still holds the title of cleric. He has spent his life… his  _ second _ life… doing this.”

“Why now?” Lett paused, realizing the threads of her question had been lost. “Why’d Abbey call you here now?”

“She thinks I’m ready to take the crown. I’ve had time to learn how not to sell my soul, so it is time to put theory into practice. To break the thrice-damned thing if I can.”

“If you can?”

“It’s a magical artifact, and beyond that, it’s a powerful unholy relic. It isn’t just a symbol of rulership. The second I put it on my head, I open myself to venues of infernal trickery I’ve never experienced.”

“So how do you break it?”

“‘Thrice-damned’ isn’t just a cute curse. House Thrune’s contract with Asmodeus was written in three parts. Anyone who wears the crown can subject themselves to any of those three contracts in exchange for more influence. We also have the option to renegotiate them. The very  _ dangerous  _ option. In so doing, it is possible to gain more power for less, even to escape damnation, but the negotiator must trap Asmodeus himself in his words.”

“No one’s ever done it, then?”

“It’s been done twice. Allegedly, the first person to break one adopted a strategy of breaking up the mess, knowing she had almost no chance of outnegotiating the Prince of Darkness himself. She tricked Mephistopheles into putting on the crown and binding himself to one of the damnations, and he did the breaking. He wasn’t about to fall for it twice, though. Whoever broke the Second Damnation was alive during the Gap. The details are unclear, of course, but the crown still exists. Abbey figured out that there was only one damnation left to break. Theoretically, this puts the crown at its most powerful for the least cost, meaning it is more enticing to those who wouldn’t ordinarily make an infernal contract.”

“And you want to destroy it? Why? You know better than to sell your soul.”

“I do,” Kaston agreed. “But I’m the last of my line, and whoever takes the crown after me might not.”

“Why not just break the damnations but keep the crown?”

“Once all three are broken, there’ll be nothing to hold it together. It will crumble into dust on its own. Why would I bother with keeping it anyways? The authority it gives me is an illusion. Cheliax is gone, because Golarion is gone. The Seven Orders have handled themselves quite civilly without a king. There’s no reason for me to step in on top.”

Lett smirked. “I just think you would look good in a crown.”

“Then I’ll make a new one. The Crown of Infernal Majesty is a shit-ugly piece of work anyways. Designed by edgelords with no fashion sense and forged by devils who couldn’t actually touch the metal they were working with.” A wry smile danced around the edges of Kaston’s words, but never quite came to his face, telling Lett there was truth to them as well as comedy. “What of you? No crown for you?”

Lett faltered. “I… I won’t be with the Order anymore in four days. I’ll be going back to the Iomedaean navy and the Knights of Golarion.”

“That doesn’t mean we can’t see each other.”

“I know. But it does mean I shouldn’t count on anything.”

Kaston held his silence for a while, then finally reached out for Lett’s hand. She stretched hers out to meet it, interlacing their fingers.

“I… well, I’ve been thinking about leaving the Hellknights, actually.”

Lett blinked, disbelieving. “You were just raised to Paravicar.”

“I’ve told you why I don’t want to be in this position.”

“Aren’t you bound to stay anyways? Isn’t that in the Code of the Scourge?”

In the dark of the room, Kaston’s eyes burned like embers in the wind. “There are ways around that. I know it’s really against the spirit of the oath, but so was what Iveren did to me.”

“What she did to you?”

“I didn’t want to join the Order, but there was no other way for Abbey and I to get off the Citadel. As civilians, we couldn’t utilize any Scourge resources, including ships and the pilots that could fly them. She said one of us could begin Armiger training, so I did. Abbey died before I finished it, of course, and then I had neither a reason nor a means to leave. She could have escorted us, I realized. I pointed it out to her, and she threatened to reveal my identity if I didn’t attempt my advancement and formalize myself as a Hellknight.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? Or anyone?”

“I couldn’t risk her learning that I’d told someone. Not while she was alive.”

“Oh, Kaston.” She tightened her grip on his hand. “I don’t… Gods. I don’t know what to think of your past.”

“Don’t worry about my past,” he advised. “It’s mine, and my burden to bear.”

“If I’m there to bear it with you, I will. You know that.”

“Why?”

“Because I love you, you idiot.”

Kaston watched her eyes, searching for any signs that she was joking, or even cruelly playing, but he found only sincerity and a little gleam of tears that drew his own forth. He closed his eyes, trying to hide them or maybe blink them away, and Lett squeezed his hand.

“Can I sit next to you?” he wondered after a few seconds, and Lett was startled by how vulnerable he sounded. She released his hand, nodded, and scooted to the side of the bed, and they talked about little things like favorite colors and cybernetics and ships and music and learned everything and nothing at all about each other, and after hours or maybe minutes had passed, Lett found Kaston stretched out across the bed asleep, his head in her lap. She stroked his hair and hummed a song she had remembered until she decided she had no sense of pitch and switched to chanting the litany of the saints instead.


	51. The Queen Once-Damned

He slept through most of the night, or what she thought was night, and she eventually dozed off with him, stirring as a knock came at the door. Unanswered, Feng stepped into the room. 

“The hour draws near. I hope you’ve rested. There’s no time to delay.”

“It worked, then?”

“As well as it ever can.” Feng turned, not waiting to see whether they would follow, and Lett scrambled after them as Kaston beckoned for her to come along. He led them back into the hangar they’d inhabited the previous night, then up a gradually spiraling staircase that led around the flight deck, up a floor. Kaston and Lett were both winded by the time they reached the top, but Feng never seemed to tire. He did, though, wait patiently for them both to catch their breath, before holding aside a black curtain that cordoned off the whole platform. The floor beneath their feet, Lett recognized abruptly, was a metal grate formed of tiny hexes, and while she knew it’d support her, she had to rein in her wild heartbeat. Her mote flickered into existence, gathering in the form of boots around her feet, and Kaston noticed swiftly.

“Are you alright, Scarlett?”

“Fine.” Her tone asserted the opposite.

“What’s wrong.”

“Just the… flooring,” she said, staring through at the ships below.

“Are you afraid of heights?”

“I’m afraid of falling,” she defended. “Heights are fine, as long as there’s a railing, and… and I can’t see sixty feet beneath me.”

“Were I you,” Feng commented, “I’d feel more threatened by the overlap between this world and the Boneyard that exists here.”

Beyond the curtain, a strange mist danced around the platform, white but with a sheen of blue-violet where the light shone through it. It thickened, blessedly, enough that she couldn’t see the grating, and when Feng stopped, she nearly ran into him, but managed to bring herself up short.

“I should warn you of this before we enter,” he said, and his voice, though a whisper, echoed. “Petitioners differ in appearance from the living. I give you one more chance to turn back, if open wounds and dead eyes unsettle you.”

A slight shiver ran through Lett’s spine, but bracing herself, she followed Feng and Kaston beyond a barrier that seemed to keep the fog at bay, setting off a room within the platform. It housed a few pieces of furniture: a silver helical fixture that Lett guessed was a lamp, but turned off; a small table with a paperboard box atop it; and two chairs, one of which was occupied. The occupant glanced up at them as they entered, and Lett met her eyes and abruptly wished she hadn’t.

“The Heir Infernal, Kaston Drayne Thrune,” Feng announced, “and his advisor...”

Kaston glanced at Lett, but her focus was elsewhere. “Scarlett Duma.”

“It is good that you announce them,” came a feeble voice, in Infernal, from the woman in the chair, and Kaston, at Feng’s direction, took the chair across from her. “I cannot see a damned thing… ah, no, now I can.” She smiled faintly, though her eyes were still filmy and white. “Hello, Kaston.”

“Abbey,” he acknowledged, and not wanting to interject, Lett watched them intently, not noticing that Feng had brought another chair for her until he tapped her shoulder.

Once Lett could see her as, she suspected, Feng had designed this place to do, Abbey looked almost exactly as she had in Kaston’s memories. Her hair was cut shorter, and her eyes, though no longer filmy, looked deep and bruised. A simple gown of white linen preserved her decency, but Lett suspected that her wound from the crown was still there, beneath.

“I have not called too soon, have I?”

Even Lett could hear the pain in her voice, and Kaston winced.

“No,” he said. “Not too soon. Hopefully I haven’t come too late.”

“I have not used it, if that is what you ask.” She continued in Infernal, although Kaston had responded in Common. Lett wondered whether she was cursed somehow, beyond the infection that had killed her.

“Good. Thank you.”

“What of your… ah, your abilities?”

“I still can’t control it, not when my emotions are running so high. But I have help.”

“Not Iveren, of course? A psychopomp named Ieboyi-- a real charmer of a nosoi-- told me she was dead.”

“No, not Iveren. Not anymore. Scarlett, do you care to introduce yourself?”

Abbey’s eyes flicked toward Lett. They were the more typically Chelaxian near-black, not the silver of Kaston’s, and they looked tired and sad, but a hellfire spark still lit them from behind. Her head had shifted slightly, and Lett realized that a pair of jet-black horns were hidden amongst her hair, curling close to her head and pointing out beneath her ears. She was a tiefling, too, of course.

“I’m Scarlett. Uh, technically, Scourgeknight Scarlett Duma. Is… would  _ your highness _ be the correct form of address?”

“It would be Infernal Majestrix. But please do not use that title. Abbey is fine. Perhaps Abrogail, if you insist on being formal. Not that it will matter for much longer, but I would rather be around people who are familiar with me. You are…” Her eyes flickered between Kaston and Lett. “You are dating, then?”

“Not officially,” Lett said, at the same time Kaston asserted, “Yes.”

“She managed to pass her advancement, at least.” Abbey nodded approvingly. “Take my hand, if you will, Scourgeknight Scarlett.”

Frowning, Lett unclasped her gauntlet, looking to Feng. He nodded, and she held her hand out. Seeing it up close, Abbey’s eyebrows raised.

“You’re Augmented?”

“I—yes. Most of my body. Not by choice.”

“Is your left hand mechanical as well?”

“No.”

Abbey set her right hand down and extended her left. It shook with exhaustion as she held it there. “Then, may I try that one instead?”

Lett switched gauntlets, and Kaston took the spare one. She met Abbey’s fingers, and just for a moment, they touched across planes, and their bodies seemed to unite, connecting through nerves that didn’t exist. The sensation of having a whole body taunted Lett, but she saw that it was barely so. Abbey had plenty of scars of her own: the bones of her back and neck had been shattered and reformed at least twice; her back was covered in whip lashes; the dark shadows on her neck were the ghosts of bruises; the wound from the crown had crept up her spine, paralyzing most of the muscles surrounding it, including her heart and diaphragm, which had killed her. Their fingers separated, and Lett caught her breath, and Abbey’s hand fell back onto her lap.

“At least,” Abbey said softly, “you have something to replace it. But I do not presume to belittle your pain. I see your scars as you see mine. I am glad to know you can find the strength, the motivation, in your pain. You are good for him. Stay with him. Teach him the way of the normal world. He and I are somewhat… unfamiliar with how things are supposed to be.” She paused. “Please.”

“I will. I swear it, and I take no oath in idleness.” Lett realized that she, too, was speaking Infernal, and a slight shiver ran through her, recognizing that she now knew the language well enough to converse in it, which was better than she knew Celestial or even Imperial Chelaxian.

Abbey sat back slightly, relieved. “Thank you. Then if that is done, there is only one more act I must make as Majestrix.” Her eyes angled towards a box on the table between them. “Brother Feng, I dislike requesting something so trivial of you, but you’ve returned the Crown now to the Material Plane. I cannot touch it, and tradition dictates that neither my heir nor his steward should until I give the word.”

Lett shifted slightly at the use of the word  _ steward.  _ Expressionless, Feng lifted the lid of the box, drawing out a three-pointed crown, a folded embroidered cloth, and a medallion not unlike the Mark of the Unswerving in design, bearing a cross with two flanged points.

“I will do this with as little ceremony as possible,” she said. “Kneel, if you will, little brother. Scarlett, I hope you do not mind if I use you as a proxy. I am unable to place it on his head.”

“I don’t mind, Your—er, Abbey. I can do that.”

“Take the stole, then,” she said, gesturing to the cloth, and Lett lifted it. “Wear it. That belongs to you, now, as my brother’s advisor. It has adorned the shoulders of many a devil. Take care you don’t follow in their footsteps.”

Lett nodded, flinching slightly as she lay it over her armor. The silver embroidery was patterned with thorns and flames, and though it clearly wasn’t actively evil, she could have sworn she felt its legacy creeping beneath her skin.

“Now the medallion, if you will. Put it around his neck.”

Lett bent down, catching a glimpse of Kaston’s face as she did. His eyes were clenched shut, trying to hold back the tears, but it was not enough.

“When this crown and title become yours, I will relinquish my title, my holdings, and my wartime authority over the Hellknight Orders. I challenge you to wear the crown as I did: rarely and carefully. May you destroy it before it destroys you. I name you, Kaston Drayne Thrune the first, my brother and heir, Infernal Majestor of the territory and authority of Cheliax.” She smirked. “Whatever the Hell that is worth. I mean, the whole bleeding planet disappeared, right?”

Abbey nodded to Lett, whose hands hovered near the crown. Lett set it gently on Kaston’s head, and she saw him shift at the weight. It looked odd on him, silver against the pitch black and bright red of his hair, but his attention was far from that.

“Does this mean you’re going to leave me now?”

“Will I ever really leave you, little brother?” Abbey gazed into Kaston’s eyes, and her smile was wistful.

“Are you going to be forced to return to Hell?”

“I don’t know.”

“Our hope is that her soul is neutral enough to be transformed into a psychopomp.” Feng met Lett’s eyes again, just in passing, and the paladin flinched. “For her sake, and to repay the favor of twelve years in waiting.”

“Gods of law protect you, little brother. You too, Scourgeknight Scarlett, especially if you someday end up as my sister.”

Lett’s brows furrowed, about to ask what Abbey meant before realizing it for herself. She nodded, murmured a prayer, and then realized she had no idea what she had just said. Kaston stared at her, surprised, but Feng smiled knowingly.

Abbey reached out to her brother then, across the bridge between worlds, interlacing her fingers with his, and Lett realized that Abbey was weeping. The petitioner closed her eyes, and whatever event had caused their world and the Boneyard to overlap seemed to be ending, because Abbey faded slowly from sight, finally ready for her judgment.

Kaston held Abbey’s hand until she vanished, and even when she did, he sat there for a while. Lett watched, worried, and finally placed a hand on his shoulder. He jumped, but settled as he realized it was her. She held her own silence until Feng led them back to their room and left them, and quietly, in imperfect Chelaxian, Lett said, “If you need to cry, I will hold you.”

Kaston leaned over into her shoulder, and cry he did.


End file.
